An Extreme Case of Window Shopping
by elysiumgates
Summary: When Emma Swan turned nineteen, she planned the biggest con of her career — scamming her way into a new life, determined to leave her baggage behind her. Yet when an old friend comes to bring her back into the world she tried so hard to escape, Emma realized that trading away a life of crime is more impossible than she expected. Heist!AU. Based on Ally Carter's Heist Society.
1. February 2000

**February 2000**

_Brooklyn, New York, New York, USA_

There were two times in the day where an eighteen year old Emma Swan felt the most peace — right before the sun rose and when it had reached its peak.

Those two moments had always brought her a yin and yang of stillness. One that surrounded her as everyone was tucked in their beds; the world quiet for a few more hours with the occasional soul to break up the silence. And the other that rested inside her as the hustle and bustle of traffic threatened to drown out everything, including her thoughts and the only thing she could focus on was the pace of her breath.

Emma had learned to appreciate these times every time they passed because she'd never held much faith in the certainty of tomorrow or even in the certainty that she'd have any more time to savor the quiet.

Especially when people like Neal kept snoring in her ear like the world's loudest chainsaw.

Emma elbowed him in the gut and bit back a smile as he choked on his spit, jolting upright in the bed. Finally dislodged from the warm weight of his arm around her, Emma got up and searched through her drawers — dressing up in her usual thermal, snow pants and favorite henley before she tossed a pair of Neal's jeans in his face. Ignoring his grumbles, Emma headed to the apartment's fully stocked kitchen. As she shoved on her clothes, she took in the pristine white tiles, grey modern design and expensive appliances including a $3,000 coffee maker and gave another silent thanks to their friend August for letting them borrow his new apartment for the weekend.

She grabbed her steaming mug and headed towards the window above the sink, resting against the stainless steel counter as she observed her target through the glass: a Brooklyn brownstone, recently restored and valued at over five million dollars.

Emma had been stuck on this project for the past two weeks and now with her temporary home base, partner and final plan — she would finally get to have some fun.

* * *

"Jesus, next time we have to share a bed, remind me to wear body armor around you." Neal rubbed his upper arms to warm himself up as they stood in the alleyway, two houses away from the brownstone.

Emma rolled her eyes as she changed into her climbing boots and gloves. "First off, I didn't even hit you hard. And second, keep your voice down."

"Yeah, yeah, say that to the huge purple bruise on my stomach. I think you may have even gave that bruise a bruise. Besides, I thought you said no one was home." Neal eyed the silo fire escape ladder attached to the brick red apartment next to them and yanked on its rusted handles to test the strength.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you should be yelling at 6 o'clock in the morning." Emma tied her curls in a tight ponytail and started on her usual stretches.

Neal scoffed and then watched her with some trepidation. "Em, are you sure about this? You know Granny wouldn't think less of you if you decided on something—"

"What? Easier?" Emma glared at him as she held her tricep behind her head. "I don't care if Granny wouldn't judge me. I'd judge me. How can I be family if I can't do a simple burglary?"

"That's bullshit Em. You're always gonna be one of Grannys' kids even if you never steal. Hell, Ruby already gives her enough headaches so she'd probably prefer it."

"Yeah, well, I'm sick of being the errand girl or the lookout while Ruby gets to have all the fun."

Neal raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, then we're doing this. You know I got your back Em, I just want to make sure you're good."

"I'm fine. Just ready to get started. Did you get the stuff I asked for?"

Neal dropped the black duffel on the concrete for Emma to search. "Yup and a new lock picking set courtesy of Ruby. She told me to tell you good luck and that if you get arrested, you promised to let her give you a makeover."

Emma rolled her eyes at Ruby's idea of a bet and kissed the lock picks, singing, "Thank you Rubes."

"Hey how about a 'thank you, oh wonderful Neal, for getting me literally everything else'?" Neal pouted.

Emma repacked the tiny duffel and stood up, donning a playful smolder as she turned to Neal. His eyes widened faintly as Emma stepped into his personal space and played with the zipper of his jacket. "Thank you Gold. I appreciate your help as always."

Neal leaned in and quirked a smitten half— smile. "It's no problem Emma. We're a team."

"Awesome." Emma gave his cheek a chaste kiss, pivoted and headed towards the fire escape with the tiny duffel slung across her back and a black mask pulled onto her face.

"And maybe," Neal smiled and he watched her scale up the building, "once we wrap this up, we can celebrate like we did last weekend? I'll get that beer you like."

"That was a one night thing Neal, besides you know I'm not doing relationships right now."

"...Who said anything about a relationship?" Neal's voice now came through the pair of headphones dangled around her neck and connected to the Nokia in her pocket. Crude, but it did its job.

Emma paused and felt the smirk aimed at her back. She scoffed. " Neal. "

"Alright, alright, keep climbing, I'll be the lookout. Just...watch your back Emma and be careful."

"Always am." Emma listened for his footsteps to exit the alleyway before she continued her climb. She took measured breaths as she went higher and higher, pacing herself till she got to the top.

Once she reached the end of the ladder, Emma threw the bag and then lifted herself over the edge of the roof and tucked herself against it. As the brick dug into her back, she surveyed the roof around her. Ventilation units, an empty clothesline rotating in the wind and a light dusting of snow on the ground.

Emma fished out her binoculars, restrapped her duffel on her back and looked beyond the current roof to the one two houses away. She searched the brick edges of the roof until she spotted them — four, state of the art, motion sensor security cameras attached to the home's private network. She learned to hate these new cameras as their upgrades allowed real time streaming and high definition picture quality.

And while they were a nuisance for thieves, they also had a weakness: lasers.

Not your average laser pointers, but industrial ones powerful enough to perform eye surgery. They had enough strength to destroy the pixels in the lenses to the point where no clear picture could be created. Only problem was that suddenly killing the pixels would undoubtedly alarm the security guards in the home below, so that's where Neal came in. She began to crawl along the roof to the other side, careful to avoid the camera's field of view as she prepared to move to the next building.

"Neal, you ready to go?" Emma whispered into the earphone mic.

His gruff voice crackled through the line. "Almost, just give me a few more seconds. You know, getting into security feeds isn't really my speciality but this was surprisingly simple."

"Hm, maybe it is your skillset." Emma teased, the sound of his typing providing a soothing background to her crawl.

Neal chuckled. "I doubt that, Em. Maybe the rich old dude who owns the house had time to set up a honeypot for me."

"Lady." Emma corrected. "House belongs to some old lady but I'd pay big money to see an old person show you up."

"Yeah, like you?"

Emma stopped crawling, having reached the other side, and rolled her eyes. "Shut up. You any closer to being done?"

Some more clacking and then: "Yup, camera feeds are on a loop from last 20 minutes, so you should be all set."

"Good. Keep the car running Neal, I'll be out soon." She pulled out the laser of her pocket, careful to make sure the mirror was facing away from her. She took a deep breath and raised her head above the edge of the roof to where she could see the four camera. And though Neal said the cameras were on a loop, Emma adjusted her mask and made sure only her eyes and hands were capable of being seen.

She grabbed a few pebbles and tossed one at the first camera on the left edge nearest to her. When the camera whirled to life at the motion and turned towards Emma, she flicked on the laser and flashed it in the camera's lens. After waiting fifteen seconds, Emma deemed the camera damaged enough and flicked another pebble to the right side's camera and did the same.

She couldn't be positive that the laser would be able to reach the two cameras on the far side from two buildings away so she slowly stood up and got ready to cross over.

The homes were about ten feet apart and stood tall at about four stories. The good news was that falling at this height wouldn't kill her. The bad? It'd probably break most of her bones, including her spine.

So Emma decided to take those wonderful facts and shoved them in the very back of her mind.

She bounced on the balls of her feet and took long steps back before counting down and watching the other ledge. When the number in her head reaches zero, Emma took a deep breath and sprinted forward — the frozen air whipping past her face as she leaped off the roof and aimed for the next.

Emma extended her arms and tucked her head forwards into a roll, sparing herself from a harsh landing as she arrived on the new building. After stopping, she grabbed the laser from her pocket and shot two blasts in the final cameras' lenses — destroying them before they even finished whirring awake from Emma's movements.

The thief held up the laser to her lips and blew away imagined gun smoke before sticking it back in her pocket. That's how you get it done.

She sauntered across the roof and look down at her final jump: a fire escape platform and her target's third story window directly above it.

"How's the third floor looking?" She asked while pulling her lock pick set from her bag and tucking it in her other pocket.

"Two guards, both armed."

"Shit. Okay, I'm about to be at the window. Can you give me a hand?"

"Yeah." Emma heard the screech of a car peeling down the road in front of the house. She ducked low, peered over and saw a masked Neal hop out, holding a small crate of lit fireworks. He ran to the curb, picked the nearest trashcan and placed the crate inside before he ran back into the 95' Toyota Camry and drove off.

The first firework snapped like a gunshot before falling silent. The second firework sent the entire bin flying in the air and the early morning silence was shattered by the loud ruckus of nearly 20 fireworks going off at once.

Emma took the opportunity to jump for the platform. Her fingers nearly didn't find solid purchase as she attempted to grab onto the steel gratings, but the grip from her boots gave her enough time to pull herself over.

"I hope that was a good enough distraction." Neal asked. The imp evident in his voice.

"With that racket? It'd better be. Check the floor for me."

"Third's clear but there's only 10 minutes left on the loop, so work fast."

Emma eyed the window lock before grabbing a Half Snowman pick and a small wrench from the set in her pocket. She slid the tools inside the lock and in under a minute, it was unlocked. Emma gave another silent thanks to Ruby for her lessons before slowly turning the handle and popping the window open.

She checked the alleyway to make sure no guards were around before climbing into the room.

And what a room it is. Emma whistled softly as she turned to take in the office's well oiled, mahogany walls, early 19th century furniture and expansive, ceiling to floor bookshelves. She breathed in the warm, cinnamon air as scoured the walls for —

There you are. She smiled as she spotted the portrait — an original Cezanne that reminded her of Granny's frown and stature. Woman with a Coffee Pot. Emma figured it would be the perfect gag gift for her.

"Neal, I'm inside the office. What's the guards' eta?"

"I don't know, Em. It's pretty weird, they've come back inside but none of them have gone up past the second floor."

"Maybe they think someone's gonna come through the front doors." The motion sensor alarms along the floor were armed. Emma eyed the red blinking light next to the office's doors, knowing the laser beams lay invisible somewhere in front of her.

"I guess but it just doesn't make sense. It's like they're waiting for something." Neal mused.

"Well, it'll be their asses on the line once I get this out of here." Emma removed a container of travel size aerosol hairspray. The sticky curtain of pressurized hair glue revealed horizontal red laser beams about an inch off the ground. They led all the way up to the wall with the Cezanne.

In her bag once more, Emma retrieve a large roll of aluminum foil. Setting to work with the practiced hand of an origami master, Emma fashioned fashioned two long, standing panels out of aluminum foil, inverted capital Ts of silver that ran out about three feet in length. She placed them gently on the ground beside one another. She pushed them forward into the beams of the security lasers, and then spread the standing foil pieces apart.

Like parting the Red Sea.

The red security beams buzzed casually, but as if nothing had changed. They were being reflected back along themselves, so neither movement nor heat could trigger the alarms. They did not betray her sure step, boots smacking softly on wood as she traded her climbing gloves for latex ones and extracted a collapsible tubing mechanism.

She removed the frame from the walls, removed and meticulously curled the aging vellum, taking extreme care not to crease or fold any section. The piece's integrity would be compromised and the entire mission would be all for naught.

Emma quickly placed the ancient work into the tube and sealed it, placing it carefully in the duffel.

"Wait, something's wrong."

Emma felt a rock drop in her stomach. "What is it?" She whispered.

"Oh no. I didn't hack into the feeds, I was let in — someone actually set a fucking honeypot for me." Neal's voice grew angry. "It's infecting everything connected to my computer, including our phones. They're gonna be heading towards you right now — get out! I'll come grab you."

"No, go without me. I've already got the painting. Destroy your computer and the phone."

"Wait, E —"

"Go. You know where to meet me." Emma disconnected the call and removed the headphones, battery and sim card. Gripping the pieces in one hand and the foil barriers in the other, Emma stepped back through the beams towards the windows. The place looked untouched, except for the massive blank wall space that once housed a century old painting.

She crumpled the foils and threw them out the window. Pulling her climbing gloves onto her hands, Emma was nearly in the clear when the door burst inwards.

Four guards stormed into the room, guns raised and as Emma looked down through the window, she noticed two more climbing up the fire escape.

Emma reached into her pocket, fingers wrapping around the laser. Just need a chance to..

"Freeze!" One of the guards barked.

"Fuck you." But Emma removed her hand out of her pocket, raising both high above her head.

"Now, turn around — slowly — and get on your knees." The guard ordered.

The room was charged, held at knifepoint into silence until Emma heard the clacking of heels entering the room and a slow, mocking clap.

"Well, I must say I am impressed." The voice was husky, refined and undoubtedly female but it's owner was blocked by the fleet of guards. "Beside the numerous mistakes you've made and the freebies I gave you, this might be the furthest anyone has ever gone stealing from me. Graham and Peter, please contain our guest for me."

Two guards stepped forward and secured Emma's arms behind her back. She hissed as they pulled harshly, locking two zip ties around her wrist. One guard cut the duffel strap and removed it from her back as another hoisted Emma onto her feet and held her captive.

The office lights were turned up and the guards parted, allowing the woman to step forward unimpeded and Emma's breath caught when she finally saw her.

Definitely not an old lady.

The woman was beautiful. Dark eyes, lips painted with red and coiffed hair that barely brushed her shoulders. She was dressed in a well-fitted black dress, covered by a burgundy blazer that matched her lips and was accentuated by the ruby necklace that nestled in her cleavage.

The woman moved into Emma's space and grabbed her neck, digging her stiletto nails into the skin. Emma struggled against the hold and the woman used the distraction to lift the mask off of the thief.

And she noticed the moment the woman's eyes widened a fraction. "Oh. A girl?"

Emma glared at her, hating the way the woman observed her like a cell under a microscope.

"You're young too."

"Not too young to steal from you." Emma spat.

The woman's lips pursed in amusement."Yes. Why did you try to steal from me?"

Emma shrugged. "Why does anybody try to steal anything?"

"Cute. That's exactly why I asked, dear. The answer is too subjective, so tell me — what's your reason?"

Emma clenched her jaw and stared past the woman. Casually disregarding her existence as if she'd never said a word.

"It's no matter." The woman chuckled and gestured to one of the guards behind her. "I suppose I can just have my men track down the person who was assisting you and ask them —"

"Lady, can we skip to the part where you call the cops so I don't have to listen to this shit anymore?" Emma growled and yanked against her zipties.

"Oh, my plan was never to have you arrested. Did you even question how easy it was for you to break in?" The woman smiled slowly, her crimson lips capturing Emma's attention. "I've known you were coming for the past week and I prefer to keep my problems in house — situations are more organized that way. My men originally were going to bring you to my favorite room in the house and break you apart, bone by bone."

"So what's the new plan?" Emma replied, careful how she phrased her response.

The woman was silent for a moment before she spoke: "I'm going to make you a better thief."

Christ, of all the things... Emma threw her head back and laughed a long, harsh, mocking laugh. "Yeah, sure, you're going to teach me how to steal?"

The woman ignored her. "What do you know of the Black Bandits?"

Emma scrunched her nose. "...That they're a global criminal network that's stolen nearly a billion dollars in gold, diamonds and art. Why, what does that have to do with anything?"

The woman ignored her again. "Good. Now, tell me something an informed person would know."

Emma began to protest. "Lady —"

"Dear, please stop wasting my time before Graham," she nodded at Emma's captor, "breaks your arm and gives you a taste of what will happen for the next 24 hours."

"Look , I don't know much. I've just heard rumors the leader's mother is the American capo dei capi. The—"

"The Boss of all Bosses." The woman interrupted Emma as she circled around her.

Emma tried to follow the women's movements with her head. "Uh yeah, rumors also say that Cora Mills is the Boss of all Bosses. Allegedly."

The woman paused in front of Emma and regarded her. "You must've spent time researching my house before you came here, no matter how inadequate of a job. So let me ask you, who's name is on the deed?"

I'm an idiot.

"Oh fuck." Emma groaned. No wonder she wasn't surprised.

"I prefer Regina." The woman - Regina - chuckled. "Graham, let her go. I have a feeling Miss..."

"Lucas." Emma answered in a slight daze. Her mind still trying to understand how she tried to rob one of the greatest thieves in the world.

Regina, if it were even possible, managed to observe her more closely. "Lucas? As in...? Well, this day keeps getting better and better. I have a feeling Miss Lucas will like this new proposition over the original. So how about we talk about it over some of my homemade apple cider? I've been told it's to die for." Regina flashed a sharp smile.

And when Emma nodded and moved to follow her out the office door — zip ties still locked around her wrist — there was only one thought left in her mind:

_Fuck, Granny is gonna kill me._


	2. Tallahassee

_You try your hardest to leave the past alone._

_This crooked posture is all you've ever known._

_It is the consequence of living in between the weight of family and the pull of gravity._

— Sleeping at Last, Heirloom

* * *

_Eleven Years Later_

_Tallahassee, Florida, USA _

It was Saturday morning and somewhere in the city of Tallahassee, Florida - where the residents were far and few in between - rested a yellow cottage that shone under the rising, winter sun. The calm array of pale pinks, bursting oranges and receding indigos provided a brilliant backdrop to the tiny, rippleless, silver-blue lake that bordered the home. Nestled in a grove of red maples, the cottage's inhabitants (including a matching '69 Volkswagen Beetle) slept peacefully in their respective beds enjoying the rare holiday break from responsibilities.

Emma blinked against the bright rays that slid through her window curtains. She rubbed her eyes, stretching lethargic muscles. She turned over and tap the off button on her alarm clock before sliding out of bed and grabbing a spare hoodie.

She padded out of her bedroom, smacking her lips and yawning as she made her way down the hallway.

She paused at the next door, painted a forest green and decorated with gold stars, and turned the knob with caution, peeking inside. Henry, with his arms and legs akimbo in his superman sheets, snored softly under the warm gaze of his mother.

Emma walked to the bed, careful not to disturb the room's owner, and fixed the boy's position until he was resting peacefully under his warm blankets. A tiny smile formed on her lips as she brushed back his tousled locks and placed a kiss on his forehead. Henry responded with a heavy snort and Emma bit back a laugh, making her way out of the bedroom.

She headed towards the kitchen and set out to begin her morning routine. After flicking on the overhead lights, Emma rinsed out bowls, skillets and grabbed several ingredients including flour, milk and butter. Since Henry was out of school and Emma had taken time away from her current job to spend time with him, she decided to surprise him with his favorite breakfast. She opened the fridge and fished out more ingredients.

_Alright, eggs, spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms and cheddar, cheddar, cheddar - there you are!_

Emma turned on the stove and waited as the pans heated up. She reached a small remote on the kitchen, pressed play, the scent of butter wafting in the air as she hummed along to John Lennon's soft crooning about Christmas.

Emma was immersed into her cooking when she heard a sharp rap on the front door. She tensed and paused the music, listening as another knock sounded.

_Who could that be? _Emma wasn't expecting anybody and she had chosen their home because of its distance away from everyone. Even Henry's elementary school had been given a P.O. box number instead of their actual address.

She crept towards the front door and picked up the metal bat resting next to it. She raised it onto her shoulder and peeked through the eyehole. Emma let out a sigh of relief and swung the door open.

On the other side stood a beautiful woman clad in a wool peacoat, leather gloves and black boots. Her black hair brushed her shoulders and gleamed in the porch lights. Emma smiled and let the bat fall against her side.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack, Tamara! You guys said you weren't coming until Christmas."

It was then that Emma noticed the quiet exhaustion and stress on the woman's usually assured face.

Tamara breathed. "Emma. I'm sorry I didn't call ahead but —"

The blonde shook her head and stepped forward to hug the woman. " — It's alright. What's going on? Are you okay?" Emma noted the tight, desperate grip Tamara held around her shoulders and pulled back to look at the women in her eyes. And then Emma's heart dropped at her next words:

"Emma, I'm fine. It's Neal — he's in trouble."

* * *

"Camomile still your favorite?" Emma placed a steaming mug in front of Tamara, followed by a plate of oatmeal, bacon and fruit.

Tamara visibly jolted out of her thoughts and looked down at the new additions. "Hm? Oh yes, thank you for this Emma."

"Anytime." She leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from her own mug of mocha. "So what's up?"

Tamara picked at her blueberries for a moment before she looked at Emma. "I have a message for you."

Emma hadn't expected that.

"Not to be an asshole, but don't you have a phone?" The blonde quirked a crooked smile.

Tamara sighed. "This isn't the kind of message I could just Skype you with. It's from Granny."

"Oh." Emma fiddled with her spoon. "How is she?"

"She's good, driving Neal nuts with the wedding planning." Tamara smiled. "She sends her love. She says that being a bail bondsperson will rob you for your soul. And you didn't hear this from me, but she's pissed you didn't visit last time you were up north." Emma started to protest, but Tamara held up a hand. "But that's not the message."

"Tam." Emma waved her hands in a 'get to the point' fashion.

"Em, she says 'he's got to give them back."

"What?" Emma's eyebrows wrinkled. "Who's got to —"

"_Neal_. There was a job, Emma. A week ago. In Scotland."

"I haven't heard about any jobs." Emma asserted before she caught herself. It had been a while since she was privy to everything in her family's work. She ignored Tamara's knowing look and drained the rest of her coffee.

"Private collection," Tamara went on. "Very high-end jewelry. Expansive security. A lot of risk. From what I know, two — possibly three — crews in the world could've done it, but —"

"Neal's at the top of the list?"

Tamara shook her head, head bowed, fingers clenched around chipped ceramic. "There _is_ no list. There's just—"

"Neal." Emma leaned back for a moment, thinking, then sighed. "So?" she asked. Suddenly it all seemed too absurd. "So what? This is what he does, Tamara. This is what we all do. What makes this time any different?"

Emma grabbed her empty mug and turned towards the sink, but in a flash, Tamara was standing, her hand holding Emma's wrist. "It's different because it's different, Emma. This man — the man with the jewelry — he's _bad news_."

"I'm Eugenia Lucas' granddaughter and your fiancé's best friend, Tamara. I'm familiar with bad news."

She tried to pull away, but Tamara stepped closer. There was a new urgency in her voice as she whispered. "Listen to me, Emma. He's not bad like Neal or your grandmother are bad." Tamara sighed. "Like _you're_ bad. This man? His name's Peter Pan and he's a whole different kind of evil."

In the seven years that she'd known her, Emma had seen Tamara in many moods: annoyed, playful, joyous. But she had never seen fear, and that, more than anything, made her pause.

"Pan." Emma's eyebrows flew up. "The mobster?"

Tamara nodded. "He wants his jewelry back." Her voice was softer now, the desperate edge replaced with something settled. "If he doesn't have them soon, then…" Tamara was unable to finish her sentence, which was just as well. Emma didn't want to hear the rest. "Emma, he _promised_ me no more work until after the wedding."

Emma rubbed Tamara's shoulder. "Alright, I'll call him and we'll figure this out. Do you have anyone in mind to help you?"

"Granny gave me some names. I don't want them."

"Well, my contacts are more limited and dated then Granny's but I'm sure there's someone —"

"No." Tamara held her gaze. "Emma, I need _you_ for this job. And only you."

The teapot was getting cold. Through the cottage window, red maple leaves scattered in the wind, and in the distance, sun rays glistened off an icy lake. But Emma didn't take her eyes off Tamara as she said, "I'm not in a position to take a job."

"You'll take this one."

Emma snorted. "Unlikely, I'm out of the business. For good."

"Fine." Tamara sighed and sat back in her chair. Her gaze cut past Emma's defenses. "But, are you out of the family?"

Emma was saved from a response by the sound of pattering feet.

A sleepy Henry appeared in the entryway, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Mama, can I have chocolate chips in my — Aunt Tam?!"

"Good morning to you too kid." Emma smirked and she got up to warm her son's breakfast.

Tamara laughed, overwhelmed with the excited embrace of her nephew as he climbed into her lap. "Hen Ten! _Nice_ pajamas, honey. I've missed you."

"Thanks, it comes with a mask too! Ma got them for me after I aced my science test. My teacher said I could be the next Tony Stark."

"Really?" Tamara pursued her lips, her expression conspiratory as she leaned closer. "Hm, so that means you'll be able to fix my sink next time you visit?"

"_Aunt Tam_." Henry rolled his eyes and shook his head. His ten year old expression looking practically paternal in his disappointment of his auntie.

"_Henry."_ Tamara hid a grin and shrugged. "How am I supposed to wash our ice cream bowls if the sink is broken?"

"Have Dad fix it — wait," he gasped. "Is he here?" Henry jumped down and stood on his tip-toes to peer through the kitchen window.

Emma and Tamara glanced at each other before Emma called Henry back to the table. He grinned his thanks as she set a hot plate of chocolate chip pancakes, extra bacon, eggs and cut fruit in front of him.

"No, he's still back home working out some issues with the venue committee." Tamara lied. "He wants a beach wedding. In _January. _Can you imagine him in swim trunks as we said 'I do?'"

Emma sat down with her own breakfast and watched Henry giggle, mouth stuffed with his favorite breakfast, as Tamara recounted a story of Neal getting chased by a scurry of squirrels. Emma felt a lump in her chest as she noticed the rigid set of Tamara's shoulders and dark shadows under her eyes. The shadow of tension remained even as she got into character, switching between the animal's rabid squeals and the low tenor of Neal's panicked voice.

"Okay. I'll help." Emma blurted out, ignoring Henry's confused frown.

Tamara's shoulders relaxed. "Thank you." She slid two tickets across the table to Emma.

Emma glanced down at the tickets and rolled her eyes at the tiny, impish grin on her friend's face.

"I figured you and Henry would want to see him, so I saved you the trouble of booking a flight."

"Of course you did." Emma laughed, resigned to the fact that she was heading back towards her old life — even for just a moment. "Where is he?"

"Boston."


	3. Family Reunion Pt I

_"When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching - they are your family."_ ― Jim Butcher

Chapter Song: _Family & Loyalty_ (feat. J. Cole) by Gang Starr

* * *

_Boston, Massachusetts, USA_

"Hey, how you doing? Can I get one pretzel, two hot chocolates, coffee and some whipped cream for both of those hot cocoas?"

Emma kept one eye on Henry as he played a couple feet away, building a small fort out of leftover snow.

The gruff vendor handed Emma her order with a grunt and little fanfare. Emma looked down and froze at the vendors' newspapers lining the top shelf of his cart.

Several of them had headlines proclaiming: _New Evidence in Gallery Robbery - Police say Arrests are the Horizon._

Emma grabbed one without thinking. "Can I get one of these too?"

The man rang her up and Emma flashed a small smile. "Thanks."

She juggled the load in her hands as she walked back to Henry, now eagerly waiting on a park bench.

"Here you go, kid." She passed him his hot cocoa, pretzel and condiments, watching as he spread mustard on the snack.

"Thanks, ma!" He smiled — mouth full with his snack. "Did you get some — "

"Some whipped cream sprayed with love in your hot chocolate? Yes, I did."

"Awesome." Henry sat back on the bench like everything was right in the world.

_To be a kid again... _

Emma used to love Boston. She remembered being there with Granny and Ruby — eating lobster rolls, visiting the Commons and carrying her blanket. It wasn't until years later that she realized it hadn't been a fun family outing — that they'd been casing the MFA at the time. Still, the memories made her smile ad warmed her just as well as the cocoa she sipped on.

"I know you said Neal's in Boston, but it might take a minute to find him," she had told Tamara as she dropped them off at the airport.

"Sure, Emma," Tamara had said in a way that implied that she knew better, and somehow, as always, Tamara was right.

Neal Gold's name and address and phone number might be constantly changing, but Emma knew her best friend, and that, it turned out, was enough to track him down.

He was half a block away when she spotted him. Some peppery gray was settling into his dark hair, but it was still thick and slightly curly. He took long strides and kept the collar of his dark wool top coat turned up against the wind as he walked — not too slow, not too fast — among the crowds of pedestrians before he stopped. Emma watched him as he stood amid a large group of tourists, listening to a guide who was lecturing in rapid Spanish at a fountain's edge.

Neal didn't seem to notice she and Henry weaving through the hordes of tourists and scavenging pigeons. There were no hugs or cries of hello when they stepped up beside him. Just Henry as he moved from Emma to stand flush against his father's side and Neal placing a warm hand against the back of Henry's neck as they shared quiet, beaming smiles — Henry's cheeks filled with the remains of mustard smeared pretzel.

Thieves aren't supposed to want too much — which is ironic, but true. _Never live anyplace you can't walk away from. Never own anything you can't leave behind._ These were the laws of Emma 's life — of Emma's world. As she watched Henry giggle at his father's jokes while Neal snuck her small smiles, she knew that, strictly speaking, no thief is ever supposed to love anything as much as she loved them.

Emma gazed at the pair as Henry and Neal caught up with one another until Henry asked them both if he could play on the Tadpole playground nearby.

"I hope that's for me," Neal said, but his gaze never left Henry who was making his way across the monkey bars.

Emma didn't know whether to feel annoyed or impressed by his casual tone — as if this were a standing date, and he had been expecting her all along.

She handed him his coffee, watched him wrap cold hands around the warm cup.

"No gloves?" she asked.

He smirked and sipped. "Not on my day off." Nearby, church bells started to ring. Pigeons scattered. Neal glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "How's the lakehouse?"

"Peaceful, like always. Henry's on winter break so we wanted to visit, see how you were doing."

Another sip. Another smirk. But this time he didn't meet her eyes. "You wanted to see if the rumors were true," he said and Emma felt her face blanch in mortification.

"Your poker face has gotten pretty bad, Em. So, who told you?" Neal asked. "Granny, Tamara?" He shook his head and sighed. "Nosy freaking women."

"It wasn't their fault, I —"

"Emma, would you believe if I said I didn't pull any jobs in Scotland last week?" The bells stopped, and the guide resumed his lecture. Neal glanced around the square and lowered his voice. "If I said I had an airtight alibi?"

"You have an alibi?" She asked and felt hope rise in her chest. "You swear?"

Neal's eyes glowed. "Pinky."

"And you can prove it?"

"Uh," he hesitated, "Well, it's a little more complicated than…" But then he trailed off and Emma followed his gaze to the roll of newspaper held loosely in her grip. She opened it and showed him the title page.

"Neal," Emma began slowly," you don't happen to know anything about that gallery that was robbed last week, do you?"

He blew on the steaming coffee, then whispered, "I told you it was a good alibi." He took a small sip. "Of course the work wasn't quite up to my usual standards — you know my best partner left me a while ago?"

He shook his head and drew an exaggerated breath. "Good help is so hard to find."

One of the Spanish ladies hissed, warning them to be quiet, and Emma started to feel claustrophobic. She wanted someplace private. She wanted someplace she could yell.

Then suddenly Emma found herself wondering… "Neal, if the job was last week, why are you still in Boston?"

As he paused mid-sip, Emma couldn't help but think that the thief had been busted. The young boy in him, on the other hand, just seemed proud of his best friend.

"Em, let's just say possession is nine tenths of the law. So, right now, I'm not as guilty as I'd like to be."

"Neal ..." She stared up at him. not quite sure she wanted to know the answer to her next question: "Where'd you stash them?"

"It's someplace safe." He hedged.

"Someplace lonely?"

"No." Neal chuckled. "Unfortunately, at the moment, it has plenty of friends."

He continued to smile, but something about the way his eyes kept darting around the square made Emma worry.

"Then maybe you should leave it there," Emma suggested.

He rocked on his heels, but didn't meet her gaze. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

He smiled wider, and Emma could have sworn she saw one of the tourist women swoon a little at the sight. A pair of teenage girls were whispering and giggling in their direction, but as far as Emma could tell, there was only one woman on the square who dared to openly stare. Perhaps she was too beautiful — too self-assured — to care who saw her looking. And yet this gorgeous, dark-haired woman's unwavering eyes made Emma feel wary.

"Watching women checking out my baby's father is gross, you know?"

"Swan" — Neal's voice was steady — "sometimes it can't be helped."

_He was joking_, Emma thought. _Wasn't he?_

But as the pair continued to listen to the tour guide, Emma still felt someone staring as if they were watching her every move.

Emma pulled her iPhone from her jacket pocket and scanned the crowd, pretending to take a video. She zoomed in on two men who lingered on a bench at a sidewalk cafe across the street, not eating, and recognized the plain clothes, bad shoes, and haggard look of a surveillance team five days into a job. And finally, Emma studied the asian woman standing at the edge of the Commons, staring at Neal, who had barely met Emma's eyes since she'd found him.

"So who are your friends?" She turned back and sighed. "Boston Police?"

"FBI, actually."

"Nice." Emma said, drawing out the word.

Neal grinned. "I thought you'd be impressed."

"It's every woman's dream," she said. "FBI surveillance. And a tropical vacation."

The church bells started to chime again. A bus pulled to a stop in front of them, blocking the agent's view of the commons, sheltering them from prying eyes, and in that split second, Neal reached for her, gripping her shoulders. "Look Emma. I don't want you to worry about this thing — this Scotland thing. No one's going to hurt me. This guy doesn't care about me. He cares about his diamond, and I don't have it, so..." He shrugged.

"He _thinks _you have them."

"But I don't." he said in that no nonsense way that all good fathers, and great thieves, are born with. "I've got a twenty-four hour tail and a solid alibi. Trust me, Emma. _Pan isn't going to come for me."_

She almost believed him. She wondered if he believed it himself. But Emma had learned at a very young age that thieves live and die based on perception — her whole life was a lesson in sleight of hand. If someone thought Neal had the diamond, then the truth wasn't going to save him.

"You've got to talk to him," Emma pleaded. "Or take Tamara and hide, or run, or—"

"Give it until the end of the week, Emma. Pan will turn over enough rocks, and enough things will crawl out that he'll figure out the truth."

"Neal —" Emma started but it was too late. The bus was moving and Neal was already pulling away, his lips barely moving as he said," You know, I wish you'd come visit me more when I'm _not_ in trouble. It would make me feel more like your best friend than, well, another one of your sons."

"You know why I can't come back, Neal."

"Wha —" For the first time, Neal looked exasperated. "Em, it's been over ten years. At this point, it kinda feels like you're running from yourself."

She glared at his profile, jaw clenched with the words she held back from yelling. There was too much hurt and no time to hash it in the small moments they had now.

Neal took one glance at her and sighed. "I don't want to fight with you, Swanny. Look, I know we planned for us to spend Christmas together but because of my situation we might have to have a second Christmas a little later. I was thinking Toronto for Christmas."

Toronto for Christmas," Emma repeated. The decade old fury burning inside her dissipated slowly.

"Or maybe Colorado? And I could teach Henry how to snowboard?"

Emma rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help her smile. "Surprise me, Gold."

"Emma." His voice stopped her. "I don't suppose you can help your baby daddy out?"

Emma scoffed and waved for Henry to come back. Once he reached her, she bent down and whispered instructions to him. Henry nodded and flashed his parents a bright smile before starting through the crowd. When he reached a pair of Boston cops and shouted, "Excuse me!" he sounded like a small child on the verge of panic. He looked utterly helpless as he rushed towards them. "Excuse me, officer!"

"Yea?" one of the cops said with a wicked accent. "Is something wrong, little man?"

"Those guys!" Henry screamed, pointing at the two plainclothes FBI agents who had left the cafe and were now chatting with their colleagues sitting on a nearby bench. "They tried to get me to . . ." Henry trailed off, inexplicably shy. The cops looked impatient, but intrigued.

"Yes?"

"They . . ." Henry gestured for one of the cops to come closer, then whispered in his ear. In a flash, both men were pushing through the crowd.

"Hey, you there!" the cops yelled to the surveillance team. Hey, you! _Stop_!" The FBI agents were almost to the fountain when the cops called again.

The agents tried to pull away, but it was too late. People were staring. The cops were bearing down. Obscenities were flying. Pockets were searched and I.D.s were studied, and through it all, the pigeons kept scavenging, the bells kept ringing.

And Emma didn't need to turn around to know that Neal was already gone.

She walked over to another path, a small distance away, and met Henry behind a tall bush.

He ran over and they hugged each other fiercely. "Are you alight, kid? You did a great job, by the way. Made me and your dad super proud."

Henry sniffed and burrowed into Emma. "Yeah, I'm just a little sad. Is Pa gonna be okay?"

"I won't lie to you, Hen. He's in a little trouble right now, but I'm gonna get him out of it." _Even if Neal is against it._

Henry nodded but then scrunched his eyebrows at her words. He pulled his head back and gazed at his mother. "So what are we gonna do now?"

Emma thought for a moment as she brushed a hand through his curls.

Then flashed him a crooked smile as she said: "Let's go visit your great-grandmother."


	4. Granny's Interlude & Bad News

"_Stealing, of course, is a crime, and a very impolite thing to do. _

_But like most impolite things, it is excusable under certain circumstances. _— Lemony Snicket

Chapter Song: _Bad Bad News_ by Leon Bridges

* * *

**July 1987**

_Dorchester, Massachusetts, USA _

Emma Swan was six years old when her life changed.

This had been the fifth foster home that Ms. Macy had placed her in. She hated it more than any other. The two story home was rundown, neglected and complete with an overgrown front yard that devoured all toys and broken furniture left in its grasp.

Inside the home wasn't much better, especially being the youngest of seven foster siblings. But most days, she managed to blend in the wallpaper and avoid any trouble. Except for last night.

But the next morning Mr. Novak, her foster father, had accidentally left the alarm unlocked when he stumbled in a stoned stupor outside and when no one was looking, Emma slipped out the doors into the streets.

The sun was sweltering but the wind was cool, and she gazed at children playing with their friends on the playground near the Novak's house. She ran to Dorchester Park and hopped on the playground. She chased squealing, laughing kids as they wasted away hours in the heat — playing tag, hopscotch and pretend.

But soon, the sun reached its peak in the sky and mothers took their children home one by one to escape the rising heat.

Emma climbed to the top of the monkey bars and laid down. Squinting against uv rays as she made clouds into shapes. If only life could be condensed to a playground, a sun and one small girl. The time ticked by slowly.

When she saw the blood orange of a sunset, Emma's stomach began to growl. She jumped down and walked deeper into the park. Emma looked at the dogs chasing frisbees and hummed along to the new Whitney Houston blaring from a passing car.

She walked towards the small pond nestled between some blooming red maples and saw an older woman throwing pieces of bread to the ducks swimming near her. Emma noticed the poise in the woman's back even as she sat on a bench. Her hair was strawberry blonde, voluminous and layered in curls framed by a woven sun hat. She was dressed in a light blouse, tailored grey trousers and turned away from Emma talking into a Motorola 8000X.

Emma frowned at her stomach's gurgling, gazed at the peaches bursting from the grocery bag that hugged the woman's side and made a decision.

She crouched low and crept up from the side. Once she reached the bench, she leaned over and smiled, her fingertips nearly grazing the fruit when a hand shot out and captured her wrist in a secure grip.

"What's this? Sticky fingers going into my bag?" The voice was stern, honeyed and Emma's head shot up. She gulped, caught in the stern blue gaze of the woman.

"Well?" The woman said.

"I-I didn't mean to." Emma said and tried to yank her wrist back.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You didn't mean to steal? Or you didn't mean to get caught?"

"To ste—" She began, but the woman's eyes were penetrating and very scary. Emma stopped yanking and blushed. "...to get caught." As her head remained bowed, she missed the tiny twinkle in the woman's eyes.

The woman reached back for the discarded telephone in her lap and murmured, "We'll talk later Anita. Give Ruby my love," before hanging up.

Emma's wrist was released and a small object was placed into her hand. It was a peach, succulent and still cool.

The woman moved her groceries and patted the seat next to her. "Come sit next to me and eat your snack, child."

Emma squinted at her for a moment. Then she shrugged, sat and chomped into the fruit.

The silence between them was companionable as Emma chewed and the woman continued to throw pieces of bread to the birds.

The women glanced at her once Emma ate her last bite. "Finished?"

"Yeah." Emma nodded, licking her lips. "Thank you."

The woman smiled and stood. "You're welcome." She looked around, "Now let's go find your parents. They must be worried sick."

But Emma remained on the bench, her arms crossed and face screwed into a pout. "I don't want to go."

"Don't you think your parents will miss you if you don't come back?"

Emma's eyebrows furrowed. "They're not my parents. Ms. Macy told me my parents left me when I was a baby."

The woman gaped and looked down at Emma. Then something caught her eye. "Child, roll up your sleeves for me."

Emma crossed her arms tighter and the woman sighed before sitting down and inching closer to the girl. "You're not in trouble dear, I just want to see something."

"You swear?" Emma watched her closely.

"Pinky." The woman said with all the seriousness in the world.

Emma rolled up her sleeves and the woman's eyes widened. Two large fresh handprints stained around the girl's forearms. Emma shrank away from the look on the woman's face but the lady held Emma closer to her in a tight hug. "I'm sorry this happened to you, child."

Emma shrugged, comforted by this stranger's care. "S'ok. Doesn't hurt anymore, just stings a little."

"Did your Ms. Macy do this to you?"

"No," Emma shook her head. "She just takes me to my new house and checks on me. My foster dad did this."

The woman was silent for a long moment. "What's your name, child?"

"Emma." She played with the strings on the woman's blouse.

The woman pulled back and flashed her a strained smile. Emma saw the tension in her face before it smoothed out.

"It's nice to meet you, Emma. My name is Eugenia, but you can call me Granny. Are you still hungry?"

Emma stopped fidgeting and nodded.

Eugenia stood up and grabbed her grocery bag. She tossed the remains of the bread loaf into the pond. "Well, I'm gonna need a hand turning these peaches into cobbler for the lunch rush tomorrow. Would you like to help me?" Eugenia held out a hand towards the girl.

"Yeah." Emma jumped off the bench and grabbed her hand.

And the remnants of sunlight guided their path as the two made their way out of the park.

* * *

**Current Day**

Strange things happen on the cusp of winter. Ask any decent thief and they'll tell you that the best time to pull a con is when the weather should be changing-but isn't. People feel lucky. Marks get careless. They look at the sky and know the snow is up there somewhere, and so they think about how they've already cheated Mother Nature. Perhaps they could get away with much, much more.

If Emma had any doubts about this theory, all she had to do was glance around the Back Bay as she and Henry strolled down Commonwealth Avenue. The sun was warm but the wind was cool, and children played without their hats and scarves. Nannies chatted beside expensive strollers, while business people took the long way home. And that was when she saw him.

Emma would not have described him as handsome. Handsome isn't a synonym for attractive; and while the man walking down the street wasn't the former, he certainly was the latter.

His hair, for example, was slick and gelled. His suit was the kind of expensive that would be out of style far too soon, and his watch was the only thing about him that was as shiny as his teeth. And yet, for the purposes of Emma's world, he was — put simply — perfect.

"Oh boy," Emma heard herself mutter as the man traipsed forward, his gaze glued to his cell phone, and ran right into a bumbling old woman in a long wool coat and threadbare sweater.

"Oh boy," Henry echoed.

"Are you okay?" Emma overheard the slick man ask. The old lady nodded but gripped the lapels of the other man's expensive suit, steadying herself.

As the two people parted ways, one stopped after only a single step. But the perfect man — the perfect mark — kept walking. He was well out of earshot by the time Henry waved cheerfully at the rumpled old woman and said, "Hi, Granny!"

If Emma had stayed in school long enough, a teacher might have eventually told her what her family had been saying for years: It's okay to break the rules, but only sometimes, and only if you know them very, very well. So maybe that was why, among the world's great thieves, Eugenia Lucas and Eugenia Lucas alone was allowed the luxury of a permanent address.

Stepping inside the old Boston brownstone, Emma felt the sun disappear behind a heavy wooden door, blocking out a neighborhood that had spent the last sixty years morphing from trendy to shady and back.

But inside, nothing ever changed. The hallway was always dim. The air always smelled like the Old Country, or what she'd been told the Old Country smelled like: beef and carrots and things simmering for long hours over slow heat in cast-iron pots that would outlive them all.

It was, in a word, home, and yet Emma didn't dare say so anymore.

Granny shuffled down the narrow hallway, stopping only long enough to pull the slick man's wallet from her pocket and toss it onto a pile of nearly identical loot that sat unopened. Forgotten.

You've been keeping busy." Emma chose one of the wallets and thumbed through the contents: one I.D., four credit cards, and nine hundred dollars in cash that hadn't been touched. "Granny, there's a lot of money in— "

"Take off your shoes if you're coming in," her grandmother barked as she continued down the narrow hall.

Emma kicked off her boots, but Henry was already hurrying behind her great grandmother, trailing her into the heart of the house.

Granny stood waiting at the ancient stove that dominated the far wall. "Now where is the hug from my favorite great-grandson?" Her voice gruff and impatient.

Henry ran up to her and she folded the boy into her arms, rocking him slowly.

"But Granny, I'm your _only_ great-grandson." Henry giggled.

She gave him a small pat on the back. "And you're doing a wonderful job at keeping first place."

"You're picking pockets?" Emma asked once she reached the kitchen. "Tell me you're being careful," Emma went on. "It's not like the old days, Granny. Now every street corner has an ATM, and every ATM has a camera, and —"

But she might as well have been speaking to a deaf woman. Granny pulled two porcelain bowls from the shelf above the stove and began ladling soup. She handed one bowl to Henry and sent him off to the den. "Go watch your cartoons, Henry."

She gave the other to Emma and pointed her toward a long wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs.

"It's a different world, Granny. I just don't want you to get into trouble."

As Emma held the bowl in her hands, she couldn't help but realize it was hot — in a lot of ways. She couldn't help but see Granny as others saw her — not as an old woman, but as _the _old woman.

"We practice a very old art, child." Her grandmother paused long enough to toss Emma's wallet toward her. "It is kept alive not by family" — another pause as Granny dropped Henry's passport onto the counter next to a loaf of day-old bread — "but by practice."

The old woman turned away from her speechless granddaughter. "I suppose you forgot that lesson in the time that you were gone."

Emma's coat suddenly felt too heavy as she stood there, remembering that she couldn't take the heat of her mistakes and _that _was why she'd gotten out of the kitchen. She sat down at the table, knowing that now she was back in.

There were a lot of things that could have happened next. Granny might have commented that the son she had brought home dressed far better than his father, the stray Emma had once chosen. Emma might have worked up the courage to finally ask Granny for the story behind the fake Picasso that hung above the hearth. Henry might have admitted that his mother's cooking had nothing on Granny's stew. But Emma glanced towards the small side table near her, her attention was on the framed photo of a beaming Ruby and a stoic but proud Eugenia.

"When was that taken?" Emma jutted her chin towards the picture.

Granny raised an eyebrow and glanced at the photo. "It was a couple years ago. After some business in Moscow, Ruby tried to teach me how to take one of those dreadful self-things."

"Selfie." Emma said, but what she thought was: _They were in Moscow?_

They did a job in Moscow.

They'd been doing jobs without me.

And logically Emma knew that, of course she knew. But acknowledging it still unearthed more surprise, more hurt than she expected to be there.

Granny watched her steadily and then took her place at the head of the table.

"You have to ask the question, Emma, in order for this old bird to answer."

"The last time Emma had been in this room, it had been August. The air outside had felt like the air in the kitchen was then-sticky and thick. At the time, Emma had thought she would never again be so uncomfortable at her grandmother's table. Sure, this was where her aunt had planned the Uffizi art heist when she was eight. It was the very room where her sister had orchestrated the hijacking of eighty percent of the world's caviar when she was fifteen. But nothing had ever felt as criminal as sitting there, announcing to her grandmother that her greatest con had worked and she was walking away from her family's kitchen in order to create a new life as an expectant mother.

Turns out, that was nothing compared to walking back in and saying, "Granny, we need your help." She lowered her eyes, studied a century's worth of scuffs and scars in the wood beneath her hands. "_I_ need your help."

Granny walked over to the oven and pulled out a loaf of fresh bread. Emma closed her eyes and thought of warm pretzels and snow covered sidewalk. "He didn't do it, Granny. I flew here and talked to Neal. He has an alibi, but..."

Granny turned from the stove and looked at Emma with knowing eyes. "What exactly is your purpose here, child?"

Emma clenched her jaw. "I need you to watch Henry for me, so I can help Neal out."

"And will you disappear for another decade once you've finished _helping_?"

It felt, at that moment, as if her having a kid was all the excuse her grandmother needed to start treating like a child. "I don't know what will happen later, but I'm here now!" Emma didn't realize she was yelling until her grandmother looked at her in the manner of a woman who has not been yelled at in a very long time.

"I'm here," Emma said, softer.

She didn't say, _I came home._

She didn't tell her, _I understand your anger._

She didn't promise, _I'm not going anywhere._

There were at least a dozen things that she might have said to reclaim her place at the table, but there was only one that really mattered. "Pan wants his diamond back."

Granny studied her. "Of course he does."

"But Neal doesn't have them."

"That boy isn't one to ask for help, Emma, especially not from me."

"Granny, _I_ need your help."

She watched her grandmother take a long serrated knife from a block by the stove and slice three pieces of warm bread. "What can I do?" Granny asked in her _I'm just an old lady_ tone.

"I need to know who did the Pan job," Emma told her.

She walked back to the table, handed her a piece of bread and a plate of butter. "And why would you need to know that?" she asked. But it wasn't a question — it was a test. Of knowledge. Of loyalty. Of how far Emma was willing to crawl to get back to where she'd been a decade ago.

"Because whoever did the Pan job has Pan's diamond."

"_And…"_

Emma puffed her chest. "And I'm going to steal them." Emma felt a surge of strength as she said the words. Like confession, it was good for the soul.

"Eat your bread, child," Granny told her, and Emma obeyed. It was the first meal she'd had since the plane.

"Hm, this is a _very_ serious thing you're trying to do," Granny said and sat down. "I'm afraid it might be difficult to accomplish as a normal mother from Tallahassee."

If the stories were to be believed, Eugenia Lucas had once won a million dollars in one weekend playing cards in the Bellagio.

Without cheating.

For the first time in her life, Emma believed in the power of her grandmother's poker face."

She lowered her gaze and told her grandmother what she already knew: "It turns out that lifestyle and I have had a parting of ways."

"I see." Her grandmother nodded but didn't gloat. She didn't have to.

"People genuinely like Neal, Emma." Granny thumbed her nose and muttered, "Although why, I do not understand. But he has friends." She placed a warm hand on top of Emma's. "Let me make some calls. It might take a day or — "

"We don't have a day or two." Emma felt herself growing angry. "I know you can find out who did the Pan job, Granny." She stood up, towering over her grandmother for the first — and probably last — time in her life. "If you can't or won't tell us, we'll find someone who will. But it has to be done." She drew a deep breath. "_I_ have to do it."

"Finish your soup, Emma, before you give yourself a stroke" Granny said, but Emma didn't sit; she didn't eat. She watched her grandmother stand and walk to the pantry; but instead of some rich dessert, she pulled out a thick roll of long paper.

Emma stared at her, her eyes wide as her grandmother pushed her meal away and laid the roll on the end of the table.

"The man who did the Pan job..." Granny began slowly. Maybe it was fatigue or habit, but her voice seemed thicker than normal as she leaned over the scroll. "We don't know who he is. We don't know where he is." Emma's heart beat faster while her spirits fell. Then, Granny gave a flick of his wrist and, in a flash, the scroll unfurled on the long table, and Emma's eyes settled on the most elaborate blueprints she'd ever seen.

Her grandmother smiled. "But we know where he's been."

* * *

For a moment, as she watched Henry absorbed in his show, she felt torn.

She knew he'd been looking forward to spending time with her, Neal and Tamara. But she also knew how much Neal's safety meant to him. So she cleared her throat and said, "I'm heading out, kid. Come give me a hug."

Henry jumped up and ran into her arms. She held him tight enough to make him squeak, but he wrapped his arms around her and sniffled.

"I'm gonna miss you so much, Henry." Emma murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair. "I love you, you know that right?"

"Yeah," his voice muffled into her chest. "I love you too, Ma."

Granny entered and leaned against the den door, watching quietly.

"I'll be back before you know it, so you be good for Granny, alright?"

Henry nodded. "Be safe on your mission, Ma."

Emma leaned back and raised an eyebrow. "Mission?"

"Yeah, I've been thinking." Henry said, his eyes sparking in excitement. "This whole thing is like a secret operation. Aunt Tam and Granny gave you your mission and now you have to save Papa before he gets into trouble." His brows furrowed in consternation. "But I'm still trying to come up with your operation name."

_I guess this is better than him crying at her leaving. _Emma opened her mouth to respond. "Um—"

"—Henry, why don't you go upstairs and set up in your mother's old room? I'm pretty sure there's a skateboard in there …" Granny said.

"Oh cool!" Henry squeezed Emma once more and bolted out the room. Emma chuckled at the far wall where she heard him pattering up the stairs.

Emma turned around and saw Granny watching her steadily. After a moment, she opened her arms and Emma stepped forward into her hug and then held in her smile.

Somehow, the old woman even found a way to make her hugs feel stern.

The street was dark by the time she left the brownstone. Maybe Emma had been too long in the hot kitchen, but without the sun, the air really did feel like winter, as if she'd been inside long enough for the season to finally change.

She headed down the block, ready for a taxi and a long, quiet plane across New England. But suddenly, someone grasped her arms. She heard a car door open behind her, and for the second time in three days, she found herself in another unfamiliar situation, greeted by another unexpected voice.

"Hello, Emma."

* * *

Emma sat across from the Crocodile, sandwiched between the two massive men who settled into place on either side of her, she had yet to hear the stories. She was ignorant of his trafficking rings in Indonesia. She hadn't heard about the explosions at his warehouse near Spain or the mysterious disappearance of a journalist in Atlanta. She only knew what she saw: an elegant young man holding a pocket watch with an ornately carved casing, two guards and absolutely no way out.

She studied him — his wool overcoat and charcoal pinstripe suit, his crimson silk tie and his slicked-back hair all used to carefully age his chubby cheeks and fresh face, and she remembered Tamara's words.

_A different kind of evil._

Emma's first thought was to fight but it wasn't an option. So, she tried asking:

"I don't suppose you'll let me go if I say please?"

The man smiled, "I see why you and Neal got along so well. Same sense of humor." His gaze remained icy as he studied her. "And bravado."

Emma shrugged. "Birds of a feather."

"Indeed." His words bore a faint accent she couldn't place — as if he were a citizen of the world. "We haven't officially met. My name is Peter Pan."

"What do you want?'

"I thought I might give you a ride to the airport." Pan gestured around the sleek, tan leather interior of the Bentley; Emma merely raised her eyebrows.

"I planned on taking the Subway."

He chuckled. "But that would be such a waste. Besides, this way, you and I can have a nice talk. And, along the way, we can even pick up my diamond if you'd prefer."

"I don't have it," she blurted before realizing how the words sounded. "Neal doesn't have it either." Emma leaned towards him, hoping that proximity might equal authenticity. "Look, he didn't do it. You're gunning for the wrong guy, Mr. Pan. He was doing a gallery job in town that night. Get any paper. It's on the front page —"

"Emma," Pan interrupted, his whisper more terrifying than a shout. "This diamond is very important to me. I came to Boston to explain that to your friend, but he is currently too popular for my tastes." Emma thought back to the FBI agents watching Neal's every move. "So it's really great luck that I should meet you. I want my diamond back, Emma. I'm willing to go to a great deal of trouble — to take a great many pains— to get them back. You'll tell Neal this for me?"

"He can't return what he didn't steal." Emma implored, but the man only gave her a condescending, empty smile and pressed a button next to the window switch.

"Two weeks should be enough time, no? Of course, it should take less, but out of respect for your grandmother and your son, I'll be generous."

The limo slowed to a stop outside the Logan Airport. The goons opened the doors, and as she stepped out into the brisk air of the terminal sidewalk, Pan said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Emma." He handed her a business card. "Until next time."

It wasn't until the door slammed and the car started through the busy road headed out of the airport, that Emma felt her heart beat again. She stared down at the pristine white card that bore Peter Pan's name printed in neat, black cursive. And the handwritten words: _Two weeks. _

Emma dialed a number into her phone.

She waited for the tiny click of the call connection and then a gruff, sleepy voice sounded — "Hello, what time is...? Wait, _Emma_?"

"August." Emma breathed. "I need your help." A plan began to form in her mind. "How soon can you meet me in New York?"


	5. Family Reunion Pt II

**Author Note:**

Hey y'all, I apologize for the delay. With school and everything's that going on right now in the world, I got fairly side tracked. But I'm planning to be back on schedule after this so I hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know your thoughts.

Stay safe and uplifted,

Elysium

* * *

_"__You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you._

_You have to go to them sometimes."_ ― A.A. Milne

Chapter Song: _Keep the Family Close_ by Drake

* * *

_New York, New York, USA _

In retrospect, Emma should've picked a different city to meet.

New York was loud, filled with traffic, subway trains, sirens and the drowning rumble of eight million voices. Yet the noise didn't irritate Emma, more so the wave of memories that crashed in her head the moment her plane hit the JFK airport tarmac. A flipbook of images flickered through her mind — her first official heists, rooftop conversations, meeting the Black Bandits and _her._

New York birthed many opportunities for her, she had accepted that. But it was also where most of them died.

She was stuck at an impasse. And the only way she knew how to bury the memories was to keep moving.

So, she hailed a cab and headed to her next destination, hoping that somehow she managed to outrun her old demons on the way.

* * *

**The Metropolitan Museum of Art**

Emma walked past hall after hall, taking in the various works that were displayed in the Met's meticulously decorated spaces.

She observed the larger Japanese jade sculptures, pondered the photorealistic murals of the Caribbean and finally found what she was looking for in the _Art of Native America _exhibit.

In front of dim-lit canvas titled _Fur Traders Descending the Missouri_, stood a man scribbling in his open journal.

He was dressed like he was three adventures past his limit. Tall with contemplative eyes that glanced up to take in the image of a French trader and his son, frozen in time on a river. Emma clocked his worn leather jacket. His lavender bandana tied loosely around his neck. And his shining, tousled hair that created an oddly charming bow on top of his assured stance.

Emma walked up next to him and took in the painting personally. "Hello August."

"Weren't we supposed to meet at your hotel?" Her old friend murmured.

"I figured you'd come here before anywhere else." Emma shrugged and thumbed through a museum pamphlet, intrigued by its offerings of discounted touring prices. "Better to cut out the middleman and save some time."

August clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Always impatient. You _do_ know it's a virtue, right?"

"So is abstinence,_ Woody." _Emma wrinkled her nose. "I'm glad I never have to share an apartment with you again."

"Well, we can't all be reformed criminals and virgin mother Marys." August shot her a glance. "Speaking of, how's the little guy doing?"

Emma sighed. "He's good. Excited to be in middle school next year."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm, fifth grade's nearly a year away and he can't stop guessing what classes he might be in."

"You know, out of everyone, I never expected you and Gold to raise a nerd." August chuckled.

A shadow of a smile formed on her lips. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. Better than I ever had when I was his age."

"Definitely better than me."

"Oh, that's for sure." Emma eyed a marble vase with two chiefs casted on it. "What've you been up to? How's your dad?"

"He's good, still trying to rope me into taking over his stuff." August shook his head. "But I spent time in some cities, had a few jobs and enjoyed the sights."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "And by sights, you mean women."

"Aren't they synonyms?"

"Funny." She bumped his shoulder.

August hummed and they walked into an exhibit displaying glass cases of different tribal fashions. A discrete glance confirmed they were alone.

"I appreciate reunions as much as the next person but what are we doing here?"

"Neal's in trouble."

August snorted. "When isn't he? Remember the gelato incident in Paris?"

"Yeah, well, we all agreed that the owner didn't actually look French."

August rolled his eyes. "So what's he done now?"

Emma took a deep breath and told him what she could.

"He didn't do it, August." She concluded. "Neal has an alibi."

"You believe him?"

"Normally?" Emma asked. "Maybe." Then she shrugged and admitted, "Maybe not." She looked down at her hands. "But I'm pretty sure he couldn't have been pulling a big job in Scotland on the same night he was pulling a small job in Boston."

August let out a slow whistle of admiration, and Emma remembered that, for all of his resources, wealth and talent, the most dangerous thing about August Booth was that, as he grew up, he wanted to be a great criminal.

"He's still in Boston?" he asked.

Emma nodded.

He paced around a Wampanoag display and then looked at her. "So what? He's got the loot stashed somewhere and a federal tail keeping him from recovering it and leaving town?"

"Something like that."

"What's he gonna do?"

"Nothing."

"You and Gold." August shook his head. "One of you won't leave" — he cut his eyes at her — "and one of you won't stop running away."

Without even realizing she'd done it, Emma pulled a card from her pocket and ran a finger across the heavy paper.

"What's that?" August asked.

Emma looked toward a painting of child sized moccasins and felt herself tremble. "Peter Pan's business card."

In a flash, August moved closer and peered at the card as if she was holding a blood-soaked bullet.

"Please tell me you found that on a sidewalk somewhere," August said.

"He was probably there following Neal, but then he saw me and he gave me a ride to the airport."

August lost his perpetual smirk. "_Peter Pan_ gave you a ride to the airport?"

"I'm fine."

"You're fine?" August stammered. "If Tamara's worried out of her mind and Granny says this guy means business, then Granny —"

"Ought to know. I know."

"This isn't a game, Emma."

"Do I look like I'm playing, August?" Emma's eyes flashed, her body wound like a bear trap. "What am I supposed to do? Neal doesn't have the diamond. There's no way this Pan guy is ever going to believe he doesn't have the diamond, so what? Should I tell Neal to go into hiding, so he'll have a nice head start when the best hitmen money can buy start chasing him in two weeks? I don't know about you, but the fact that he's got an FBI surveillance detail watching him twenty-four/seven feels pretty good to me right now!"

"...This guy really wants his diamond back."

"So I'm going to give him his diamond back."

"Great plan. Except you don't have it."

"I will," Emma said as they started for the exhibit exit. "Just as soon as I steal them."

After a long silence, he said, "How much time?"

"Two weeks."

"Shit, Emma."

"I know." The crow's feet around Emma's eyes faded and she looked seventeen again. Offering him a new chance for adventure. "Can I count on you?"

"You and Neal can be absolute idiots." August paused for a moment. "But you're always family. I'm in."

Emma felt the tension in her neck unravel for the first time in days. "Good."

"But if we're doing this, we're gonna need a team."

Emma nodded. "Who do you have in mind?"

The glint in his eyes was unmistakable. "You'll see."

* * *

**THIRTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Las Vegas, Nevada, USA_

There are a lot of reasons people come to Las Vegas. Some come because they want to get rich. Some come because they want to get married. Some want to get lost, and others found. Some are running to. Some are running from. It had always seemed to Emma that Vegas was a town where almost everyone was hoping to get something for nothing — an entire city of thieves.

But as Emma and August rode the escalator from the casino floor to the conference rooms above, she realized those reasons probably did not apply to the World Summit on Psychiatric Disorders, Mental Health and Wellness.

"I didn't know there were this many psych guys," August said as they stepped onto the crowded concourse.

Emma cleared her throat.

"And women," he added. "Psych women."

Everywhere Emma looked, she saw people wearing bad suits and name badges, mingling and laughing, oblivious to the slot machines and cocktail waitresses only a floor below. Emma supposed the keynote speaker must be as brilliant and riveting as the rumors said. _If _you were interested in disorders, therapy, and medication, that is. Emma and August followed the crowd into the dim ballroom where the man was lecturing. They found seats in the back row.

"Places like this give me the creeps." August whispered.

"Why? Because of the nauseating amount of wool blazers and coffee stains?"

"No, it's like being a rat in a room of cats. I feel like they can sniff out my issues from a mile away."

Emma scanned the crowd. "Well, at least one of them can."

August's gaze was locked on the conference program he held in his hands. "Where is he?"

"By the projector. Fifth row. Center aisle."

At the front of the room, the doctor rambled on about forensic psychology.

"You know"— August began —"I don't know that both of us really have to be here..." The slide changed. While hundreds of mathematicians waited with baited breath, the man besides Emma whispered, "I could go make some calls... check on some things..."

"Play some blackjack?"

August smiled. "Right."

"Shh."

They stayed in the overly air-conditioned ballroom, listening to the entire first lecture and part of the second. By the time she saw a member of the summit's audiovisual team slink out the back doors, Emma's hands were frozen and her stomach was growling. So she didn't think twice about grabbing August and slipping through the open door."

While the psychiatric genius droned on inside Ballroom B, three people gathered secretly in the empty casino hallway.

No one saw August hug the man and say, "Hi, Archie."

"So you tell us, how was the lecture, Archie?" August read the name tag of the man in front of him. "Or is it John?"

But the man just smiled as if he'd been caught — which he had — by two of the few people on earth whose opinions actually mattered to him.

"How'd you find me?" Archie asked. August just raised his eyebrows, and Archie muttered, "Never mind."

Soon the escalator was taking them away from the PhDs and carpeted ballrooms; the silence gave way to loud ringing and screaming tourists in fanny packs that sat in rows at slot machines. Waitresses glided through the crowd. It was easy to feel alone there, lost in the chaos. But Emma knew better.

She patted the cylindrical case in her hands and looked at the men beside her. "Let's go find a blind spot."

As they walked through the maze of the casino floor, Emma couldn't help but notice a slight bounce in Archie's step as he chatted about the lecture, the advances in both psychology and technology. The geniuses and legends who'd given talks that morning at breakfast.

"You know you're smarter than all of them, right?" August said flatly. "In fact, if you wanted to prove it..." He glanced at the blackjack tables.

Archie shook his head. "I don't count cards, August."

"Don't?" August smiled. "Or won't? You know, technically, it's not illegal."

"But it's frowned upon." Sweat beaded at Archie's brow. He sounded like someone had just suggested he swim after eating. "It is seriously frowned upon."

They found a table outside, near the edge of the crowded pool, away from cameras and guards.

Archie dragged his chair beneath an umbrella. "I burn," he explained as Emma took the seat across from him. He took a deep breath, as if working up the courage to ask, "Is it a job?"

August stretched out on a lounge chair, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. "More like a favor."

Archie seemed to deflate, so Emma added, "For now."

The desert air was dry, but there was no denying the smell of chlorine — and money — as Emma rolled the blueprints out onto the glass tabletop.

Archie leaned over the plans. "Are these the Sabre 570s?"

"Yep," August answered.

He whistled in the same way August sometimes whistled, but Archie's sounded more like a wounded bird.

"That's a lot of security. Bank?" he guessed. Emma shook her head. "Government?" Archie guessed again.

"Jewelry," Emma said.

"Private collection," August added.

Archie glanced up from the table. "Yours?"

August laughed. "I wish."

"Is it our objective to make it yours?" Archie's eyes grew wide.

August and Emma exchanged a look. August's grin seemed to admit that the thought had crossed his mind. Then he leaned closer and said, "It's not exactly a typical operation."

Archie wasn't fazed; his mind was too full of diagnoses and algorithms and exponential alternatives for typical to have any meaning for him anymore.

He studied the blueprints in silence for ten minutes, before looking up at Emma. "In my professional opinion, I'd say it's a pass. Unless this place is Fort Knox. Wait a second." His eyes shone. "Is it Fort Knox?"

"No," August and Emma said in unison.

"Then I wouldn't hit it," he said, pushing the blueprints away.

"It's already been hit," Emma confided.

"Neal?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Emma exclaimed.

August took off his sunglasses to look Archie in the eyes. His voice barely carried over the sounds of the laughter and splashes from the pool. "We'd really like to know who hit it."

"Who hit this?" Archie jabbed his finger at the center of the blueprints. "It's not a big list, I can tell you that."

"The smaller the better, my friend," August said with a pat on Archie's back. "The smaller the better."

"Can I keep these?" Archie asked.

"Sure," Emma said. "We've got a spare set. And, Archie...thank you."

She was already standing and starting to walk away, when Archie asked, "this is why you're back, isn't it?"

Emma squinted against the bright sun. She felt a million miles from the grey-skied land of Tallahassee.

"Yeah." She glanced at August. "It's kind of..."

Archie waved her away. "I don't need to know. I was just wondering if it had anything to do with those two men who have been following us since we left the lecture."

Of all the people Emma expected to see on the Las Vegas strip, Peter Pan's goons were not on the list. They hadn't tried to blend in among the tourists and high rollers — hadn't taken a place at the tables, or positioned themselves by the slots — and that, more than anything, infuriated her. Together, Goon One and Goon Two were five hundred pounds of Scottish muscle.

And yet Emma had missed them.

She worried what else she might be missing as she rushed August and Archie away from the pool.

When Emma looked back, she saw one of the men raising his left arm, pointing at his watch.

"Emma?" Archie asked.

"Keep walking."

* * *

"What time is it?" Emma wondered aloud as she and August walked across the tarmac to the Booth family's private plane. "Let me think. Twelve hours in the air, that'll put us there..."

"High noon," August answered. "Give or take."

"Okay, first thing tomorrow we hit the streets around Pan's place. Somebody saw something."

"I got it covered."

"The DiMarcos might be in town."

"Actually, they're in jail."

"All seven of them?"

August shrugged. "It was an interesting October."

Emma shook her head and tried to remind herself that not everything had changed. "Okay, then we should call—"

"I said, I've got it." August's voice was firmer now. Emma stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

"Define _got it_."

"Hey, I'm more than just a delightful travel companion, you know." He grinned. "And I'm not exactly anti-social."

"Who then?" Emma asked, but August kept walking.

"A friend."

Emma reached for his arm and stopped him. "A friend of yours? A friend of mine?"

He broke free of her grip and stepped away, hands in his pockets and a dark smile on his face. "Are we going to have a problem, Emma?" August asked, his voice a carbon copy of Granny's.

"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I'm just wondering who they are? Someone you and the dwarfs used in Germany?"

"Luxembourg, actually." August paused and turned around. "Technically, the _DiMarcos_ and I did a job in Luxembourg."

Emma started to say something — wanted to say anything — but the words didn't come.

"You were gone, Emma." August wasn't teasing anymore.

"I know."

"For 10 _years_."

"I know."

"That's a long time, Emma. In any world, that's a long time." He took a deep breath. "Besides, your heart left a long time before the rest of you followed."

She started for the plane. "Well, I'm back now."

"Neal and Granny weren't the only people you left when you went away, you know." Emma heard his words fly toward her across the tarmac. She turned, remembering the stale air of August's mother's room. She knew she was looking at the only person, besides herself, who was more used to being left than leaving.

August ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Either we're a team or we aren't. Either you trust me or you don't." August took a step toward her. "What's it going to be, Emma?"

"August, I..." _I can't do this without you._

"You know what?" He was utterly resolved as he slipped on his sunglasses. "Never mind. Either way, I'm all in."

"Besides, I do make excellent arm candy." August called over his shoulder as he passed her and boarded the plane.

Emma wanted to be relieved. She tried to say thank you. But as she boarded, all she managed to do was worry about who—or what—might be waiting on the ground in Scotland.

* * *

**TWELVE DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom_

_Fuck, no_. Emma heard the words in her head before she thought to say them out loud.

Emma shook the sleep out of her eyes and tried to think logically about the situation. After all, she was in Scotland. Standing on a private jet, living the dreams of a younger her, and yet all Emma could do was watch the hangar door open, revealing a private airstrip, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and a young woman with long flowing hair (no longer dyed with red streaks) and a cocked hip.

All Emma could really say was, "Fuck, no."

It is fairly safe to assume that all thieves will have a sixth sense that allows them to hear more, process more quickly. And yet Emma didn't need to think about why the sight of that particular woman made the little hairs on her neck stand up.

"Hello, M&M." The woman said.

"Can I talk to you?" Emma grabbed August and yet, while she was sturdy on her feet, August was much quicker on his. He moved past her and strode down the stairs just as the woman leveled her gaze at him and purred, "Hey, handsome."

When he hugged the girl, her long legs lifting off the ground, Emma just stood frozen at the top of the stairs, not moving until the woman named Ruby said, "Oh, come on, Em, don't you have a hug for your sister?"


	6. New Player in Town

**Chapter Song:** You Can't Always Get What You Want by The Rolling Stones

* * *

Families are strange things in more ways than one. And family businesses...well, there was no limit to the oddness.

Walking through the narrow streets of the bustling city Peter Pan called home, Emma had to wonder for the millionth time if it was that way in all family businesses. Was there a shoe store in Seattle that had been handed down through generations only to spawn two teenage cousins who couldn't be left alone together? Was there — at this very moment — a restaurant in Rio where two sisters were crossing their arms and refusing to work the same shift?

Or perhaps these feelings were reserved for the family businesses where getting shot or imprisoned was an occupational hazard.

But Emma would never know. She only had one family, after all, and nothing whatsoever to compare it to.

"August," Ruby pouted as she draped her arm through his, "Emma's being unfriendly."

"Nope," August warned, though Emma saw his eyes hold a twinkle, "Ruby, I'm not getting into your sibling drama. Emma, come here, so you guys can hug it out."

But Emma was never forced affection. And unlike Ruby, she adamantly refused to pout. Maybe she'd lost those abilities when she was in the foster system; or maybe, like bad reflexes and a steadfast relationship with the truth, those skills had been slowly bred out of her. Whatever the case, she stayed put and managed to say, "It's good to see you, Ruby. I thought you were in Mumbai."

"And _I_ thought you were living the single mom life in the Bayou. Guess we were both wrong."

There had been radio silence between the two since their last fight over Emma's choices. Ruby had been relentless in demanding Emma come back to the family.

_You're a coward_, Ruby had screamed at her that humid summer day. And Emma's responding fist to the jaw resulted in the sisters ceasing all communication despite Granny's best efforts. In its place, a stilted game of telephone had been born with the aid of Neal and Eugenia.

The past years had done Ruby well though. She was imposing, taller somehow. Her signature red dyed streaks had been removed in place of natural chestnut waves and her gaze gained the same steel shine that Granny was known for.

_X-ray eyes_. Neal liked to call them.

Now after a two hour drive, Ruby pressed against August, she held his arm tightly, leaving Emma to walk beside them like a third wheel down streets that were barely wide enough for two.

"How's your mom?" Emma asked her.

"Engaged." Ruby gave an exasperated sigh. "Again."

"Oh," August said. "Congratulations."

"You could say that. He's a count. I think. Or maybe a duke." She turned to August. "Which one's better?"

Before he could answer, they came to a low stone wall. Beyond it, rolling acres stretched out across the Glen Etive. A river sliced through the fertile land while sheep grazed on a distant hill. Scotland was one of the most beautiful places on earth, and yet Emma was unable to tear her eyes away from the photos in August's hands. Images of a massive compound near a beautiful lake. August leaned against the wall, flipping through the photos that zoomed in closer and closer to the compound. Soon Emma was staring at the walls and lines that, until then, she'd only seen modeled in blueprints.

"This is as close as you got to the house?" August asked Ruby.

She chomped her gum. "You mean to the fortress? Seriously, nice picking guys."

"We didn't pick it," Emma reminded her.

"Whatever. The place has a fifteen-foot stone wall."

"We know," Emma told her.

"Four perimeter towers. With guards."

"We know." Emma rolled her eyes.

"And a _moat_. Did you know that, smartass? Did you know there's an actual moat? Like with creatures under the water?" Ruby gave a whole-body shiver, but the point was clear.

August put the pictures back into his pocket and turned, placed his elbows on top of the wall, leaning there.

"Fine," Emma said. "What about the police report?" she asked, but Ruby just laughed. "You didn't check with the police...at all?"

"You didn't ask them about...anything?" Emma asked over the sound of laughter that echoed on the cobblestones. Even August was smiling. But Emma just stood there, amazed that someone who shared Granny's blood might not behave as if very few jobs in history have ever stayed off the police's radar entirely.

After all, people tended to notice if, at 8:02 p.m., every car alarm in the city went off for twenty minutes. Or if fifteen traffic lights went out between the hours of nine and ten. Or if a patrol car found an unmarked van abandoned by the side of the road — full of duct tape and hummingbirds.

These are the footprints of people who are very careful where they step. But they're footprints nonetheless.

"Men like Peter Pan don't call the police, Emma." Ruby spoke slowly, as if Emma had gotten amazingly stupid while she was away. "Those of us who don't abandon our families know these things."

"Jesus, I left for a —"

"You _left_." Ruby's voice was colder than the wind. "And you'd still be cutting the crust off Henry's sandwiches if I hadn't told Tamara to...You'd still be there."

Authenticity is a strange thing, Emma knew. Someone carves an image out of stone. A machine prints a dead president on a bill. An artist puts paint on a canvas. Does it really matter who the painter is? Is a forged Picasso any less beautiful than a real one? Maybe it was just her, but Emma didn't think so. And still, as she looked at her sister, she thought she smelled a fake.

"Ruby," Emma said slowly, "how'd you know Tamara visited me?"

Emma heard her sister scoff and make up some line about a lucky guess. But a theory was already flashing through Emma's mind: a passed message. Granny informing Tamara to leave Emma alone. Ruby persuading her to seek Emma out anyway. She turned to August and realized that he seemed too calm, almost too willing when she had visited him. The situation developed fast enough to warrant posting suspicion, but what really bothered Emma was that she had been kept in the dark to get here.

"_Ruby_, August?" Emma smacked his shoulder. "It wasn't bad enough that Ruby already told you what was going on, but you had to bring _her_ in to help? Really!?"

"I can hear you," her sister sang beside her.

Emma smacked his shoulder again and he yelped. "Hey! What was I supposed to do? I wanted to let you get your pitch off and contrary to popular belief, I don't know _that _many women." They both stared at him. "Okay, I don't know that many women who have your special skills."

Ruby batted her eyelashes. "Oh, you do know how to make a girl feel special."

But Emma...Emma felt like a fool.

She looked at August. "I'll see you at the hotel." She turned to her sister. "And I'll see you at... Thanks for coming, Ruby. But I'm sure there's a beach somewhere that wishes you were on it, so I'll let you get back to your business and I'll get back to mine."

She had almost made it to the corner when her sister called, "You think you're the only person in the world who loves Neal?"

Emma stopped and studied Ruby. For the first time in her life, she could have sworn her sister wasn't trying to mess with her. By the time Ruby was nine, she had been trained to call five different men daddy. There was an oil tycoon from Texas, a billionaire from Brazil, a man with a very unfortunate overbite who did something for the Paraguayan government, which oversaw the import/export of a highly overpriced fake Monet or two, but none of them had been her father.

"You need me," Ruby said. There was no doubt in her voice. No flirt. No ditz. She was in every way Eugenia Lucas' granddaughter. A pro. A con. A thief. "Like it or not, M&M, the reunion starts now."

Emma sat quietly as Ruby parked their tiny European car on the side of a winding country road. There were no headlights, no sounds. As Emma opened the door and stepped outside, she felt a cool damp breeze, and looked up at a dark starless sky. A thief couldn't ask for anything more.

"Tell me again why _I_ had to ride in the backseat." August stretched and stared down at her.

"The millionaire always rides in the back, big guy." She reached to pat him on the chest. August snorted and left the car.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ruby asked.

There were a million lies Emma could have told, but none more powerful than the truth. "This is our only idea."

While August popped the hood and disabled the engine so that no roaming guards or passing busybodies would stop to ask questions, Emma kept her gaze locked with Ruby's. At that moment, Ruby looked a lot like her younger self in Powerpuff pajamas. Unsure but determined, and maybe just a little bit heroic.

"Ruby, I —"

"Coming?" August's whisper sliced through the night, cutting off whatever Emma was about to say. She was left with no choice but to turn and start up the steep embankment, shrouded in inky darkness, fallen branches sounding like firecrackers as they snapped underfoot.

"Shit," Emma said ten minutes later, stumbling for what felt like the millionth time. She didn't know what was worse, that August had to steady her, or that Ruby was witnessing her clumsiness.

She kept waiting for her sister to say _Emma's out of practice_. She was sure August was about to joke that the PTA physical fitness initiative was sorely lacking in practical application. But no one said a word as they made their way to the top of a tall hill, climbing steadily until Ruby came to a sudden stop. Emma almost collided with her sister as she pointed and said, "That's it."

Even at night, even from this distance, anyone could see that Peter Pan's home was really a palace made of stone and wood, surrounded by oak trees. A postcard paradise. But what Emma noticed were the guards and the towers, the walls and the gates. It was no paradise — it was more like a prison.

The grass was damp against their stomachs as the three of them lay at the top of the hill, looking down on the villa below. Emma hated to admit it, but Ruby was absolutely right: you did have to see it to believe it. The day before, when they had spread out the blueprints for Archie to study, Emma had thought Peter Pan's home was one of the hardest targets she'd ever seen. But when the dark clouds parted for a moment, and the moon shone like a spotlight on the moat, Emma realized that only a fool would approach those walls.

"Groundhog?" August asked.

"No time," Emma replied. "The tunneling alone would take days, and Pan wouldn't leave these woods unpatrolled for that long."

"Fallen Angel?"

"Maybe," Emma answered, looking to the sky. "But even on a night with no moon, that inner courtyard is awfully small to risk someone seeing you or your parachute. And no one builds guard towers if they aren't going to fill them with guards."

"And guns," Ruby added.

Emma watched her sister turn onto her back, rest her head on her arms, and stare up at the black clouds that filled the sky. She might as well have been lying on a beach or in her own bed for all the ease she exhibited. But Emma's feet ached from the run through the woods. Her black ski cap was too tight and itchy.

Emma didn't know how to rob Peter Pan.

So Emma didn't know how _anyone_ could have robbed Peter Pan.

And that was what she hated most of all.

"So someone either Trojan Horsed or Avon Ladied or..." August was going on, still listing options, but Emma was through speculating; she didn't dare to guess. Instead, she was recalling the words August had said to Archie: _It's not an ordinary job._ Emma was realizing that maybe it couldn't be done by an ordinary thief.

It was as if some invisible hand had taken hold of Emma in that moment — was pulling her up by the back of her black jacket, bringing her to her feet.

"Get down!" Ruby snapped, reaching for her sister, but Emma was already moving to the edge of the ridge.

"Where are you going?" August asked as she walked purposefully toward the drawbridge, trying to shut down the part of her mind that asked _Drawbridge_!

"Emma!" Ruby hissed. "You're going to get caught."

The grin Emma flashed over her shoulder was nearly wicked. "I know."

The gates loomed taller as Emma approached. Lights shone strategically around the perimeter, highlighting the drops of rain that were starting to slice through the black sky. Still, Emma walked slowly, deliberately, across the fields and toward the villa walls. She felt the stare of the security cameras. She sensed the movement of the guards. To keep her mind occupied, she tried to guess the age of the villa, the names of the original owners, the history of the lake. She tried to focus on the falling rain, her frizzing hair.

But mostly she tried to look calm as she strolled to the small metal box on the side of the road. She prayed her voice wouldn't betray her as she stared into the small camera and announced into the speaker, "My name is Emma Swan." Lightning struck behind her. "I'm here to see Peter Pan."

* * *

If the Pan villa was a place that typically did not receive guests, it did not show it.

The man who opened the door reminded Emma oddly of Alfred, the way he wordlessly took her wet coat and softly asked her to follow. There were marble floors and chandeliers, fresh flowers, and fires burning in two of the four rooms she passed. But there were no stacks of mail lying on tables, no coats or scarves hung carelessly on the backs of chairs. It was a place that valued beauty and order in equal measure, Emma knew. So she stayed quiet, following her guide toward a set of double doors more intimidating than the drawbridge. She stood silent, waiting for an audience with Peter Pan.

He was sitting behind an antique desk when the doors opened, near another roaring fire in a room much like the study of the Booth family's upstate home. There were books and decanters, tall windows and a grand piano that Emma guessed he frequently played. Though the house was at least twenty thousand square feet, Emma had an inkling that this was the room where the man of the house really lived.

"Leave us," he ordered Emma's guide. She heard the double doors close behind her and knew that it was at least a little bit foolish not to tremble at being left alone with him. And yet her hands stayed steady. Her pulse didn't race.

"I should welcome you to my home, Emma," he told her, tipping his head slightly. "I must say, this is a surprise. And I like to consider myself someone who is not easily surprised."

"Well," Emma said slowly, "I was in the mood for whiskey."

Pan smiled. "And you've come here alone," he said, but it was really a question.

"Now, I could say yes, and have you think I'm lying." She took a step forward, ran her hand across the baby-soft leather of a wingback chair. "Or I could say no, and have you think I'm bluffing. So maybe I'll just say...no comment."

He pushed back from his desk as he studied her. "So you have — as you Americans say — backup?"

"Not really."

"But you're not afraid, are you?"

She was in Peter Pan's favorite room, but in every way that really mattered, Emma was back on her home turf. "No. I guess I'm not."

He stared at her. After an excruciating pause, he asked, "Perhaps you don't think I'd hurt a young woman?"

"That's a lovely piece," Emma said, pointing at a Louis XV armoire near the fireplace.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Did you come to steal it?"

"Darn it," Emma said with a snap of her fingers. "I knew I should have brought my big purse."

Scary men do scary things, but for Emma, nothing was as terrifying as the sound of Peter Pan laughing. "It's a shame we didn't meet under different circumstances, Emma. I think I would have enjoyed knowing you. But we did not." He stood and walked to a cabinet, poured himself a glass of something that looked old and expensive. "I take it that you do not have my diamond."

"That's kind of been my story all along."

"If you've come here to ask for more time, then — "

"Like I told your boys in Vegas, I'm working on it." She glared at his goon, who had slipped inside and was standing like a statue by the door. "Or didn't you get the message?"

"Yes, yes." He took a seat on the leather sofa in the center of the room. "You have indeed been making some interesting inquiries. Your grandmother's home in Boston...that, I could understand. Your grandmother is the sort of woman who should be consulted. But the trip to Las Vegas" — he leaned back and took a sip — "that came as a surprise. And then I learned that we had visitors this evening. Well, you can understand if I'm perplexed."

"I told you everything in your car," Emma explained, her voice steady. "Neal didn't steal your diamond. With a little time and a little help, I may be able to tell you who did. I may even be able to arrange for them to be returned — "

His smile widened. "Now _that_ is an interesting proposition."

"But first..."

"Help?" the man guessed.

She nodded. "You say Neal did this."

"I _know_ he did this."

"How?"

"Oh, Emma, surely any half-decent thief would know that I have taken _precautions_ to protect myself and my belongings." Peter Pan raised a hand, waved at the opulent surroundings.

"The Stig 360," she said with a smile. "Nice. Personally, I prefer the cameras in the 340 models. They're clunkier, but they have more range."

Outside the villa, the rain was falling in torrents, but inside, Peter's voice was as dry as kindling. "I had hoped you would take my word that Neal has done this terrible thing, Emma. But if — "

"_Look_." Emma's voice was sharper than she'd thought possible as she stepped closer to the man at the center of the room. His goon made a move toward her, but Pan stopped him with a wave. "It's not a pride thing. Or a trust thing. It's an information thing. You're a man who makes careful decisions based on the best information possible, are you not, Mr. Pan?"

"Of course."

"Then help me. Help me get your diamond back. You've got proof, right?"

Pan held his drink to the light as if toasting Emma and her courage. "Of course."

Emma smiled, but her expression held no cheer. "Then show me what you've got."

There would come a time — although Emma didn't know it yet — when her conversation with Pan that evening would be told and retold around Granny's kitchen table a thousand times. When the story of her crossing the drawbridge would involve not rain but bullets; when the tale of her asking Peter Pan for his help would include threats and windows and something involving a pair of antique dueling cutlass (which, according to legend, Emma would also steal).

But Emma herself never told the story. August and Ruby lay in the darkness, staring down at the grounds when the drawbridge lowered and Emma left of her own free will, taking her sweet time.

As she walked through the rain and darkness, August and Ruby didn't notice the way she kept the small disk from Peter Pan tucked under her arm. But, of course, they would see it eventually.

And, of course, eventually, it would change everything.

* * *

The hotel suite was nice. August didn't know how to reserve any other kind. The couch was plush, and the television was large, but as Emma settled in to watch the disk Pan had given her, she was anything but comfortable.

"There should be popcorn," August's voice cut through the suite. "Am I the only one who thinks there should be popcorn?"

Emma pulled her dry sweater around her and tried to tell herself it was the rain and her damp hair that had chilled her.

"Milk Duds," Ruby said as she sank to the end of the sofa. "I, personally, am a fan of them." And Emma suddenly realized where the chill was coming from.

Ruby hadn't spoken to her in the car or looked at her in the elevator. Emma pulled a notebook from her bag and crossed her legs, wondering if Ruby would ever forgive Emma for walking away from her.

Again.

She reached for the remote control and pushed_ play_. The television flickered. Ghostly black-and-white images flashed across the screen: the long entryway that she had walked down only an hour before, a professional-grade kitchen, a wine cellar, a billiards parlor, Peter Pan's private study. And finally..."Stop."

Ruby hit the _pause_ button, and the image froze on a room that Emma hadn't seen — a room Emma could only assume very few people ever saw.

A bench was the only piece of furniture. The floors were solid stone instead of marble or wood. But the most remarkable thing was multiple gemstones encased in separate glass cases that stood against the far wall.

"Blueprints," she said, but August was already rolling the spare set of documents onto the coffee table between the sofa and the TV.

"Here." Emma pointed to a room on the plans that had the same dimensions as the one on the screen. "Looks like it's located underground, probably only accessible here." She tapped the blueprints. "A hidden elevator in Pan's office."

"How do you know that?" August asked.

Emma thought about the dark wooden paneling behind Pan's desk. "Because I'm pretty sure I was standing right in front of it tonight."

Ruby tensed beside her, but she didn't speak as she touched the remote. The black-and-white images played like an old silent movie without a star, until the video flickered back to Pan's office. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, so it was easy to see the bolt of lightning that flashed through the sky on the screen in front of them. A split second later, the screen went black. Emma could imagine the villa going dark, someone complaining about ancient wiring and a dislike of storms.

But in the suite, all Emma heard was the deep sighs of her companions and their simultaneous exclamation, _"Benjamin Franklin."_

Having done it herself on more than one occasion, it wasn't hard for Emma to imagine the thief scouting the old villa and formulating a plan. She imagined him taking a room in town — something that catered to tourists, perhaps. A place where he could be just another visitor to the countryside, while he watched and waited for a stormy night.

"When the tape resumed, Emma leaned close and squinted. "How long until the generators kicked on?"

"Forty-five seconds," August answered.

"Not bad," Ruby said.

"For Pan's system or our guy?" August asked.

She shrugged as if to say it was a toss-up.

"Everything else went black, but this room..." Emma pointed to the vault like space that filled the screen. "This room must be on a separate feed from the rest of the house. This room kept recording." Emma glanced from the screen to the blueprints. "Looks like it's directly under..."

But her voice trailed off as, on screen, water began dripping from the gallery ceiling.

"The moat," they all finished in unison.

"Cool." August's voice was pure awe. "Benjamin Franklin with a side of Loch Ness Monster. Points for cultural relevance."

"That moat is disgusting. Seriously." Ruby stated. "There's no way I'd go near it."

"From what I could see, there were at least five precious gems in that room, Rubes," August said. "You'd go near it."

"Maybe," Ruby sniffed. "But if he cut a hole in the ceiling of a room under a _moat_, then why isn't it flooded?"

Emma turned away, not needing to see the screen to know what was happening. "He rode a mini-submarine in from the lake and then sealed it to the room's roof. After that, all he had to do was open the hatch, cut the hole, and... _a mini-submarine._" Emma said again with a shake of her head, as if trying to cast aside a terrible case of deja-vu.

August looked at her. "How do you know?"

"...Because that's what Neal did." Ruby answered and a silence fell over them as Emma stood and walked to the windows that overlooked the quiet streets. "Three years ago. London. It was —"

"Beautiful," August said, but Emma had another word in mind.

"Risky."

"Well," August said slowly, "at least now we know why Neal is Pan's leading suspect."

"Only suspect," Ruby corrected.

On the screen, a masked man in a plain black wetsuit was easing through the fresh hole in the gallery roof, moving with silent purpose. There were no hurried or wasted steps as he neutralized the pressure switches on only one glass case, one particular case that held a diamond that gleaned brighter and bluer than the rest with nearly 46 carats in total — _The Hope Diamond._ He packed it carefully in a watertight case, and slid it through the hole in the ceiling and into the craft Emma knew was waiting in the moat outside.

"Pan said that when the power went out, someone looped the video feed to the guard's station, so no one saw a thing. What we're watching is from an off-site backup system that our guy either didn't know about or missed." Emma shrugged. "However it happened, no one even knew that diamond was gone until Pan got home from a business trip."

"What kind of business is he in?" August asked.

Ruby simply said, "Evil."

August and Emma looked at her. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "Peter Pan is in the business of evil."

Something about the way she turned back to the TV told Emma there was something she wasn't telling her — information obtained from black market dealers or corporate gossips, from Manhattan socialites or high-ranking Italian mafia. They were the kinds of stories told in smoke-filled back rooms over expensive, stolen Cuban cigars.

But some stories made your hands shake. Sometimes too many details made you fidget in the dark. So Emma didn't ask Ruby to tell the tales. She looked at her, watched Ruby toss the remote on the table and say, "So I'm going to handcuff myself to you the next time you decide to take a stroll."

"I was fine," Emma insisted, desperate for her older sister to understand. "He...likes me. I amuse him. He thinks I'm" — Emma hadn't realized until now — "like him."

"You're not," Ruby blurted. For the first time in hours she looked into her eyes. "You are _not _like Peter Pan."

There were times when Emma thought she knew everything there was to know about Ruby Lucas and then there were times like this, when she felt that her sister was one of the first edition novels in Granny's library: Emma hadn't even finished the first chapter.

"How deep would the river that runs to the moat be at its shallowest?" August asked.

Emma shrugged. "Eight feet?"

Ruby nodded. "I'd say ten at the most."

"How small would the sub have to be?" August asked.

"Small," Emma answered.

Then Ruby asked, "_How_ small?"

Emma heard the hum of a motorcycle on the street below, and saw lights shining on the Edinburgh Castle in the distance. In the dim hotel room, a masked man stood frozen on the TV screen, caught in the act of stealing one very precious gem and Neal's future.

"There's only one way to find out."


	7. Pseudonim Om

"_Comprehension begins when we pull back the lens." _

Chapter Song: Birthright by Sleeping at Last

* * *

**ELEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE **

_South Cornwall, England, United Kingdom_

The Triton & Sons Dive Shop in South Cornwall was a family run business and very proud of that particular fact. Triton had been the son of a fisherman, but he'd suffered from an unfortunate tendency toward seasickness and was forced to find a respectable career that could be safely conducted on dry land. So he built boats.

Triton the Second built bigger boats. And by the time a woman from a very different type of family business arrived at their shop front on the Celtic coast, Triton the Third had built and patented at least a half dozen of the most advanced (and justifiably expensive) watercrafts in the world.

Or so Neal had told Emma right before he'd made a trip to London.

As soon as the receptionist at Triton & Sons saw the young man strolling through the double glass doors, she could tell he was from money — that almost anything in their showroom was something for which he could simply write a check. Maybe pay cash. Certainly charge on whatever ridiculously high-limit credit card he carried.

But that wasn't why she smiled when the young man removed his sunglasses, leaned across the sleek glass counter, and said, "Haló." The woman felt as if every muscle in her body were starting to melt. "I was wondering if you could help me."

Running a crew means delegating, knowing when to sit out and let others take the lead. Understanding what your best resources are and exactly how to use them. But as Emma stood across the busy seaside street, watching the young receptionist flirt with August through the large picture window, she began to feel that August might leave with a number and not a name.

"Every_ single_ time." She muttered before asking Ruby, "Are you watching this?" But her sister's attentions were focused on the man at the sidewalk cafe who was equally enamored by Ruby and, more specifically, her onyx leather-clad legs.

Emma rolled her eyes."I swear to Christ, if August blows our one good lead..."

But her sister didn't notice. If she had, she might have said something — done something — but as it was, she didn't even turn until Emma was across the street, walking through the gleaming doors.

"There you are." Emma was panting, pretending to be out of breath as she walked up to the counter.

"Hi." August pulled away from the saleswoman's hand as if he had felt a spark. "I was just..." he started.

Emma sighed. "Dad says you have thirty minutes to make it back on board or else we're leaving for Majorca without you and telling your mother you fell overboard." Emma turned to the salesgirl. "Of course, I voted for actually pushing him overboard." She exhaled loudly. "I'm his sister."

"_Stepsister_," August added without missing a beat. The young woman smiled with the knowledge that Emma wasn't his girlfriend.

"Are you almost finished?" Emma asked, impatient.

"Yeah," August said, sounding exactly like the bored millionaire he was. "They've got some cool stuff."

Somehow Emma doubted that the geniuses behind the finest watercrafts in the world would like to hear their inventions demoted to "cool stuff," but if the salesgirl shared this feeling, she didn't show it.

"So are you going to buy one or aren't you?" Emma asked.

"Uh... yeah," August said, walking around the showroom. "I kinda like this one."

If Emma hadn't known better, she might have thought the vessel August had chosen was a model, a replica — something shrunk down to size in order to fit onto the showroom floor. But, of course, it wasn't. And that, of course, was the point.

The _Royal Siren _was the smallest non-military underwater vessel in the world. Not much larger than the mermaids for which it was named, it was six feet long and four feet tall, roughly the size of a go-cart — the very type of craft that could submerge in the small river that connected to the Pan moat. The very type of craft that — at this moment — was their one and only lead."

"Yeah," August said, standing back and admiring it. "I'll take this one."

"Excellent, sir!" the saleswoman exclaimed, but August just jerked his head in Emma's direction.

"You've got the credit card, don't you, sis?"

Emma was more than happy to follow the young woman to a tall counter, where she began pulling out forms and shuffling papers until Emma's hand landed on top of her own, cutting her off in mid motion. "If I may be honest, Amelia," Emma said, reading the woman's name tag, "my dear stepbrother is an immature little man." Emma looked at August from the corner of her eye. "He likes toys."

Emma could never be sure if August had heard her or not, "but nevertheless, he chose that moment to pick up a model of a world-class racing yacht and begin making bubble noises as it dove to the bottom of an imaginary lake.

"Three years ago he convinced his mother to buy a villa on Lake Como because he needed a place to play." Emma paused for a moment, recalling that August's family did have a home in Northern Italy. "The year after that he bought an eighty-foot yacht because he needed something to play on."

Behind her, August was using his model to dive-bomb a cup full of pencils.

Emma leaned closer to the saleswoman and lowered her voice. "But men don't like sharing their toys, do they, Amelia?"

The saleswoman shook her head. "No."

"And so when the Bernard brothers bought a ninety-foot yacht last summer, my dear stepbrother was not very happy. And" — she cut her eyes back to August and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper — "unfortunately, when he's not happy, his mother isn't happy, and when his mother isn't happy..."

Amelia nodded. "I see. Yes."

"I'm telling you this because he really needs to be the guy with the _Royal Siren _— not _one of the_ guys with the _Royal Siren_." Emma flashed her most sympathetic smile. "Trust me, if we get home and find out that there's another one just across the —"

"Oh no, there isn't!" Amelia exclaimed.

"Really?" Emma asked.

"Well, to be honest..." Amelia stole a glance around the room, as if what she was about to say might make two generations of Tritons roll over in their graves. "It's really more for show, you know? We don't sell that many."

In the corner of the room, August had strapped himself inside the _Royal Siren_ and was doing his best imitation of a World War II fighter pilot, bombing unsuspecting foes.

" But they're so...cool," Emma said. "I find that hard to believe."

"Really," Amelia soothed. "In the last year, we only sold two."

"I knew it." Emma said, throwing up her hands and starting toward August. "I told my brother that the Bernard brothers would already have —"

"Oh no, miss," Amelia said. "We haven't sold to those brothers."

"Really?" Emma turned. "Are you certain?"

"Oh yes. The first went to a business. They do the studies underwater. It's really quite —"

"And the other?" Emma asked, stepping closer.

"Well, he was someone who might run in the same...circles as your family," Amelia admitted carefully, but Emma thought, _You have no idea._

She watched the young woman shift as if debating what to say or, more precisely, how to say it. Finally, she whispered, "This man... you see, he was quite..._wealthy_.'

"Well then, I'm afraid..." Emma said, turning to walk away, counting on Amelia's eventual...

"But he didn't live in South Cornwall!"

Emma turned slowly. "Oh, really?"

"Oh, yes. Sir Hood."

"Hood?" Emma asked.

"Yes," the young woman said. "Sir Robin Hood. He was very specific — he wanted his _Siren_ delivered to Italy."

"Italy?"

"Yes, directly to one of his estates. Near Venice."

* * *

Although she would never have admitted it out loud, there were many things Emma Swan liked about her home in Florida.

There was, after all, something to be said for sleeping in the same bed every night and always knowing the way to and from the bathroom in the dark. Henry had taught her to appreciate the intrigue of the library — an entire building where anyone could take things they didn't own and feel no remorse about it. But the thing Emma had loved most about Tallahassee — the thing she missed most as she sat beside August and Ruby on a train bound for Venice — was that her calm lakehouse was the only place Emma had ever been where it was okay to be a bit purposeless.

But now, autumn was over and Tallahassse was gone. Emma was left to stare out the train window at the snowy caps of the Dolomites. In her coat pocket she had two passports and one of August's credit cards. She was very good with four languages and decent at two more. Henry was safe at Granny's. She could go anywhere. She could do anything. Maybe it was the altitude, but suddenly Emma felt herself growing short on air and smothered by the infinite possibilities that lay before her, and the questions her mind couldn't help but ask.

So, Emma tried not to think about the other things — the hard questions that were locked outside, racing the train. She wished she could outrun them, lose them like a tail. But Emma knew better. They'd be waiting for her in Venice.

Emma's ears popped as the train went faster, climbed higher, and the thoughts that had been swirling in her mind narrowed to one person, one place.

Robin Hood.

Venice, Italy.

And with that, Emma closed her eyes. She didn't see the first flakes of snow fall outside her window. She didn't feel Ruby cover her with a blanket. She was already fast asleep.

* * *

**TEN DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Venice, Italy_

The one thought that Emma hadn't had on the train was the first one that torpedoed her mind as soon as they reached the station the next morning: sometimes it's nice being partnered with a millionaire.

"Did you have a nice trip, miss?" Frederico, August's butler, asked — appearing from thin air on the crowded platform. Their bags were already on the cart in front of him. Emma stared at him, trying to guess whether the lithe, salt and pepper haired man was closer in age to fifty or eighty. She listened, trying to determine whether his accent was more Sicilian than Tuscan. But most of all, Emma pondered why Frederico "Figaro" Conte was the only servant she had ever seen orbiting around Planet August.

When they stepped outside the station, Emma was struck by the frigid air, but thankfully a car was already waiting.

The winter's first snow had been plowed neatly to the side of the roads, and the sidewalks were covered with tourists and townspeople going about their day. Emma watched through her window and thought: _Robin Hood could be here._

Robin Hood could be anywhere.

Robin Hood could be anyone.

No one spoke on the car ride or said a word as they walked through the hotel lobby. Emma had the vague realization that it was nice reaching a penthouse via an elevator and not a and not a ventilation duct, and as the car rose, she closed her eyes. She might have been content to stand like that all day. All week. All year. But, all too soon, the doors slid open.

And Emma was listening to a mellow, authoritative voice say, "Hello, Emma."

Emma had heard of the presidential suite at the Aman Venice Hotel, of course. Every self-respecting thief was aware that this room was traditionally used for hosting kings and princes, presidents and CEOs. But for all its history, the most intimidating thing about the room right then was the sight of Granny, standing beside a roaring fire. "Welcome to Venice."

When Granny held out her arms, Ruby rushed into them, gushing at her in rapid Romanian. No one translated for August, but he understood the exchange. Three days ago, Emma had walked back into her grandmother's home and her graces, but anyone could see that Ruby, who had spent the last six months using cleavage and quick hands to pick some of the plusher pockets in Mumbai, had never really left the family kitchen.

"Your mother?" Granny asked, holding Ruby at arm's length.

"Engaged," Ruby said with a sigh.

Granny nodded. She'd heard it all before. "He has art?"

"Paintings," Ruby confirmed. "Family stuff. He's a count."

"Or a duke," August chimed in.

"I still get them confused," Ruby confessed.

"Who doesn't?" Granny admitted with a shrug, still holding her and beaming. "It's good to see you, little one." She scanned her short skirt. "I just wish I was not seeing quite so much of you."

Ruby didn't even register the insult. "It's good to see you too. But how did you —"

Granny shook her head. The question wasn't how her grandmother had gotten there. The question, Emma knew, was _what had she come to tell them_? What had she learned that she couldn't share over the phone? And what was Emma going to have to do about it?

She settled into the chair closest to the fire and looked up at Emma. "You have gone to see Mr. Triton?"

Emma was faintly aware of the smell of good coffee, and noticed that at some point an espresso cup had appeared in Granny's hand. But her attention, like August's and Ruby's, was entirely absorbed by Granny.

"Sir Robin Hood." She was speaking to them all, but Emma felt her grandmother's gaze settle upon her. "This name is not unfamiliar to you?"

"Is it an alias?" Emma asked.

"Of course." Granny smiled as if enjoying the notion that she might still be, in part, a little girl.

"And the shipping address here in Italy?" August asked.

"You have indeed been busy." Eugenia chuckled but quickly grew serious. "I only wish it were not for nothing."

"Who is he?" Emma asked.

"He is no one." Granny's eyes passed to Ruby. "He is everyone."

Eugenia Lucas was not a woman of riddles, and so Emma knew the words must matter, but she couldn't fathom how.

"I...I don't understand," she said with a shake of her head.

"It's a Pseudonim Om, Emma," her grandmother said, and Ruby drew a quick breath. Emma blinked against the fire's glare. Outside, the snow fell softly, and yet it felt to Emma as if all of Venice were standing still — as if nothing could ever break the trance until —

"What's a Pseudonim Om?"

Emma looked at August and blinked, somehow managing to remember that despite being fluent in the language of the thief, he would never be a native speaker. A member of the family.

"What?" August's voice rose in frustration. "What's wrong? What is a Pseudoni—"

"Alias Man," Ruby whispered. "A Pseudonim Om is an Alias Man."

But the literal translation was lost on August. Emma read it in his eyes, saw it in his impatient hands.

"The old families…" Emma said, staring at him. "They had names — aliases — that they only used when they were doing things that were too big, too dangerous — things they had to keep hidden...even from each other. They were secret names, August. _Sacred names_."

Emma looked at her grandmother. She guessed that in all of Eugenia's years she had rarely seen a Pseudonim used. If Emma had asked to hear the stories, her grandmother might have told her that Robin Hood had once stolen some highly incriminating documents from a czar, and a diamond from a queen. He'd smuggled Nazi war plans out of Germany and done a fair amount of work behind the Iron Curtain. But Granny offered no such details.

Instead, she looked at the next generation and smiled with the irony of it as she explained, "If Robin Hood were real, he would be over six hundred years old and the greatest thief who'd ever lived."

August looked at each one of them in turn. "I still don't understand."

"It is an alias that is not used lightly, young man," Eugenia answered. Emma knew the words were really for her. "It is a name that is not used by simply _anyone," _Granny rose from her chair. "This is finished, Emma." She walked toward the door as if there were something on her stove that needed stirring. "I will tell Neal. I will try to make amends with Mr. Pan."

"But — " Ruby was on her feet.

"A Pseudonim is a sacred thing!" Her grandmother whirled. "Any job done in the name of Robin Hood will not be undone by children!"

In a way, every thief Emma knew was young at heart, and she merely had the body that matched — a body that could be utilized in very effective ways if the air ducts were small or the guards were naive. But she'd never been spoken to like she was a little girl.

Her grandmother stopped at the door. Frederico was there, waiting silently with her coat.

"You may go back to Tallahassee if you wish, Emma." Granny tied on her scarf as the butler reached for the door. "I'm afraid this is beyond even you now."

Emma didn't watch her grandmother go. She stayed seated on the couch, vaguely aware of August saying something about spending the winter working the ski chalets in Switzerland. She realized at some point that Ruby had sent Frederico out for food. She was wondering briefly how her sister could eat at a time like this, when she turned to Emma and said, "Well?"

Emma thought she heard August talking on the phone in one of the bedrooms, explaining that she might be arriving in town and "Émilie, you are a minx..."

But Granny's voice was still echoing in Emma's ears — _It is beyond even you now_ — resounding with the things she did not say.

Someone very, very good had gone after Pan's diamond. Someone very, very connected had known enough to call into play one of the oldest rules of their world.

Someone very, very greedy had allowed Neal to stay alone in Pan's spotlight.

Only someone very, very foolish would disobey Granny and try to do something about it now.

That is, if there was anything left to do.

"You know we could always..." Ruby started, but Emma was already up, already moving toward the door.

"I'll be back." She stopped and studied her sister. The look in Ruby's eyes told her that despite their tension if Neal's safety were something she could have purchased, she would have written Emma a check, sold her gifted Monet, her skills, her soul. Emma wanted to thank her, to ask why someone who put valued family and loyalty like Ruby would choose to be halfway around the world with someone, like her, who'd left everyone behind.

But all she choked out was a pitiful, "I'll be back soon." And then she walked away, into the cold.

* * *

Emma wasn't sure how long she'd been gone, or where she was going. Hours passed. The surveillance video Peter Pan had given her played in a constant loop in her mind until, finally, she found herself in the doorway of a bakery. She savored the smell of bread and realized that she was hungry. Then, just as suddenly, she realized she wasn't alone.

"If you die of pneumonia, I'm pretty sure Henry will kill me and make it look like an accident."

Emma studied her sister's reflection in the bakery window. Ruby didn't smile. She didn't scold. She simply handed her a cup of hot chocolate and draped her heavy coat around Emma's shoulders.

All around them, the snow was falling harder, covering the streets like a blanket — a fresh start. But Emma had experience; she knew not even an Venice winter could help them hide their tracks.

She turned and looked up and down the street. A trolley car ran silently across a cobblestone square. Snowcapped mountains and ornate eighteenth century buildings stretched out in every direction, and Emma felt extraordinarily small in the shadows of the Dolomites.

"What do we do now, Ruby?" Emma didn't want to cry. She willed her voice not to crack. "What do we do now?"

"Granny said not to do anything." She placed her arm around Emma and steered her down the sidewalk. For a second, Emma felt that perhaps her legs had frozen; she'd forgotten how to move. "Do you trust Granny?" he asked.

"Of course. She'd do anything for me."

Ruby stopped. Her breath was a foggy, fine mist. "What would she do for Neal?"

Sometimes it takes a different perspective, someone with fresh eyes to see the truth. Standing there, Emma knew that was the question she should have been asking all along. She thought of her grandmother's order and Peter Pan's cold eyes.

Peter Pan wasn't going to get his diamond back.

Peter Pan was never going to see his diamond again.

She brought the cocoa to her lips, but it was too hot. She stared into the swirls of chocolate as the snow fell into her cup, and, in her mind, the video kept playing.

"We're crazy," Ruby said, shivering without her coat. She took Emma's arm, tried to lead her into the shelter of a nearby cafe. But Emma stood staring at the snow as fat flakes melted into her steaming cocoa. Suddenly, she remembered a blue door. She recalled playing among stacks of books and sitting quietly on her birth mother's lap.

"What is it?" Ruby asked, stepping closer.

Emma closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was back in high school, taking a test. The answer was in a book she'd read, a lecture she'd heard — all she had to do was go into the vault of her mind and steal the truth that lay inside.

"Em." Ruby tried to break through her concentration. "I said — "

"Why doesn't Pan go to the police?" she blurted.

Ruby held her hands out as if the answer should be obvious. And it was. "He doesn't like the police. And he doesn't want them getting their nasty fingerprints all over his pretty jewel."

"But what if it's more than that?" she prompted. "Why keep them hidden under the moat? Why not have them insured? What if..."

"They aren't really _his_!"

Around them, shops were closing for the night. She looked at the darkened windows, still looking for the blue door that was hundreds of miles away.

"Emma —"

"Hanau." Church bells began to chime. "We need to go to Germany."


	8. Somewhere in America

**NINE DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Hanau, Germany _

Leroy Blaník was not unaccustomed to young people arriving on his doorstep. Most were students, they'd tell him, there to search for a better grade somewhere among his rows of files and stacks of books. A few were treasure seekers, convinced that they had seen a misplaced ruby or a pearl necklace tucked inside their grandmother's attic and were curious to know what — if any — finder's fee might be coming their way.

But when he woke to the sound of knocking that Monday morning, he pulled on his robe and moved through the dark house, completely unsure what he might find.

_"Wer ist da?"_ he said, throwing open the door, expecting to have to squint against the light, but he had misjudged the time. The sun was still too low to shine over the bookstore across the road. _"Was wollen Sie? Es ist mal smach ehr fruh,_" Leroy snapped in his native German.

The pair of women standing on his stoop wore backpacks like the students, and had nervous, hopeful eyes like the treasure hunters. But Leroy could not determine to which group they belonged. He only knew that his bed upstairs was warm and soft while that stoop was cold and hard, and he was quite certain which one he preferred to see before the sun.

_"Ich entschuldige mich fur die Stunde, Herr Blaník."_

The blonde spoke German with the faintest hint of an American accent. The brunette didn't speak at all.

More than anything, Leroy wanted to close the door and go back upstairs, but something had taken a hold in him, a curiosity about this blonde girl. And the brunette, too, he supposed. Because, of all the backpacks and wide eyes he had seen on his small stoop, none had ever come before the sun.

"You would prefer English, would you not?" he asked.

Emma had thought she was using her best German, but the man had placed her accent too easily. Ten years, she feared, might have taken even more from her than she knew.

"I'm fine either way," Emma said, but Mr. Blaník nodded at the other girl beside her.

"I believe your companion would not agree."

Ruby yawned. Her expression was vacant.

"We're sorry for the hour, Mr. Blaník," Emma said, her German abandoned. "I'm afraid we've just arrived in Hanau. We would have waited —"

"Then wait!" the man grumbled, starting to close the door.

She may have been sleepy, but Ruby was still quick, and she silently leaned against the blue door as if she simply needed a way to stay upright."

"I'm afraid we don't have the time to wait, sir," Emma said.

"My time is valuable too, _fraulein_. Almost as valuable as my rest."

"Of course," Emma said, glancing down. Despite the freezing wind, she pulled her black ski cap from her head. In the glass of the door's small window she saw her hair standing on end, and felt the static coursing through her — a charge that had been building for days. She knew answers lay behind that blue door. Not all. But some. And she feared that if she turned to walk away now, gripped the metal railing of the stairs, the charge might stop her heart.

"We have some questions, sir...about jewels." She paused, waiting, but the man merely stared at her with sleepy eyes. Behind him, rows of filing cabinets lined the wall in front of several windows, blocking out the early morning light. Stacks of papers ran through the space like a maze.

"Try the MoMA, pretty American girl," he said with a faint smile. "I'm just a grumpy old man with too much time and too few friends."

"Sir, I was told that you could help me."

"By whom?" he snapped.

Ruby looked at Emma as if she had the same question. Leroy stepped closer. The first rays of the sun were just peeking over the buildings across the street. They illuminated the features of a young woman with a mane of blonde ringlets, and before she even spoke, he knew what her answer would be.

"My mother."

* * *

"You look like her," Leroy Blaník said, handing Emma a cup of coffee.

Emma had often wondered what was more cruel: to so closely resemble a mother who had left you behind, making you equal parts daughter, outcast and ghost, or to have nothing of your parent in your features — to be, aesthetically speaking, more than one generation removed.

But when Leroy sipped his hot coffee and watched Emma drink hers, he smiled the way he might if he saw a replica of his favorite childhood toy in a shop window — happy that something he loved wasn't entirely gone from the world.

"I thought you might come to see me again someday," he said after a long silence.

Beside her, Ruby was coming awake, taking in every aspect of Leroy Blaník's cluttered existence. Don't you have a computer?"

Leroy grumbled. Emma answered for him. "He _is_ the computer."

He eyed her again and nodded appreciatively.

"I manage to maintain a good deal of my research" — the older man tapped his head — "in safe places." He leaned on his cluttered desk. "But I have a feeling that my organizational systems are not why you're here."

"We were traveling and we had some questions —"

"About jewels," Leroy said with a roll of his hands, gesturing for Emma to get to the good stuff.

"And in my mom's journals, she always spoke highly of you."

"I'm glad you read them," he said, "A daughter should know the important things about her mother."

"Wait, _he_ gave you those journals?" Ruby asked.

Emma nodded. "Mr. Blaník was the one I found when I looked for my parents."

"We met before then, Emma_. _Do you remember your first visit here?" he asked.

Emma nodded. "My cocoa was too hot, so you opened a window and held the cup outside until it caught some snowflakes." She smiled at the memory. "I drove my parents crazy for a while after that, refusing to take anything but fresh snow in my hot chocolate."

Leroy looked as if he wanted to laugh but had forgotten how. "You were so little that day. And so much like your parents. You lost them too soon, _schneeflocke_," he said. "_We_ all lost them too soon."

"Thank you for helping find out what really happened to them. Your work was very important to my parents."

"And does your appearance here mean that you've made a discovery relevant to our work together?"

Emma shook her head. Ruby shifted, and Emma felt her sister's patience wane.

"Unfortunately, I'm here on another matter."

The man leaned back in his old wooden chair. "I see. And what sort of matter would this be?"

Ruby glanced at Emma — a quick look with only one translation:_ Can we trust him?_

Her reply was a simple: _We have to._

"The kind of matters I was involved in when I wasn't researching here. With you."

Emma had wondered for the past few hours how much of her life Mr. Blaník knew about. But the answer, it turned out, was in Leroy Blaník's eyes as he smiled. _I see._

"We need to know," Emma went on. "I need to know if these _mean_ anything to you."

Ruby reached into her coat pocket and removed five sheets of paper. Five pictures — grainy images from odd angles captured from a piece of video footage. Mr. Blaník laid them across the cluttered desk and sat for a long time, whispering quietly in a language Emma didn't understand. For a moment she was sure he had forgotten that she and Ruby were even in the room. He studied the images as if they were a deck of cards and he were a fortune-teller, trying to read his own fate.

"This..." he said finally. His voice was sharper as he demanded, "How? Where?"

"It's..." Emma stumbled when she realized she had finally met someone besides Henry she didn't know how to lie to.

Fortunately, Ruby never had that problem. "We saw a sort of home movie recently. This and other gems were on it."

Mr. Blaník's eyes grew even wider. "This was in a home?"

Ruby nodded. "Yes, part of a collection that —"

"This is no collection!" Leroy Blaník shouted. "It was an important relic stolen out of greed."

Emma thought back to the room hidden beneath a moat, guarded by one of the best security systems in the world, and she knew that he was right. Peter Pan had taken a priceless piece of history and locked it away until the night Robin Hood set it free.

The man pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to a filing cabinet overrun with books and magazines and creeping plants that dragged all the way to the dusty floor. He opened the drawer and removed a folder, brought it back to his desk.

"I presume you are a well-traveled young woman," Mr. Blaník stated, looking at Ruby. "Tell me, have you seen that diamond before that video?" She shook her head.

"That is because no one has seen it in more than a century." Leroy settled into his hard wooden seat as if he'd used all his energy crossing the room and no longer had the strength to stand. "The Kollur Mine in India was home to many large diamonds. It mainly profited the king, higher members of the caste system and foreign merchants. Many of the miners who dug there died from poor safety standards — faulty supports, monsoons, terrible living conditions — but there was a small group of Bombay archeologists who managed to find something of vast cultural significance. "

Mr. Blaník opened the folder where a photocopy of a portrait was taped inside. It showed a group of Indian men in their best clothes, smiling their best smiles, while the _Hope Diamond_ looked on twinkling as an eye of the giant Hindu statue behind them.

"This diamond had been in the possession of the goddess Sita for centuries until the day the soldiers of the British East India Company came and took it — and every member of this group — away. None of them were ever seen again." Tears gathered in his eyes as he stared at the photo.

Leroy looked up and studied Emma closely.

"Your mother used to sit in that very chair and listen to this old man rant about the lines on maps and laws in books that, even decades later, can stand between right and wrong. Countries with their laws of provenance," he scoffed. "Museums with fake bills of sale."

Leroy's sadness turned to fervor. "And that's why your mother came to this room... She told me that sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief." His eyes shone. "You're going to steal this diamond, aren't you, Emma?"

Emma wanted to explain everything, but right then the truth seemed like the crudest thing of all.

"Mr. Blaník." Ruby's voice was calm and even. "I'm afraid it's a very long story."

The man nodded. "I see." He looked at Emma in the way of a man who had long since given up trying to right all the wrongs of the world himself.

"The men who took the _Hope Diamond_ from those archaeologist's walls were evil, my dear. The men those men gave it to were evil. This diamond was traded for terrible favors in terrible times." Leroy took a deep breath. "No one good could have that diamond, Emma." Emma nodded. "So wherever you have to go" — he stood — "whatever you have to —"

He reached out his hand. And when Emma's hand was wrapped in his own calloused one, he looked into her eyes and said, "Be careful."

Standing on Leroy Blaník's front steps, facing the street, Emma felt very different from when she'd stood in that same spot forty minutes earlier, facing the door. Suspicions were facts. Fears were real. And ghosts were alive as she stood where her mother had once stood, unsure how to follow in her footsteps.

"It was good to see you again, Emma," Leroy called from the doorway. "When I realized who you were..."

"Yes?" she asked, and Mr. Blaník smiled.

"I thought perhaps you were here because of what happened at the Pavilion."

Ruby was already near the car, but the mention of the best museum in the world caught her attention. "What happened at the Pavilion?"

Leroy laughed a quick, throaty laugh. "You two should know better than I. It was _robbed_." He whispered that last word. "Or so they say," he added with a shrug, and despite everything, Emma managed to smile.

"Don't worry, Mr. Blaník. I'm afraid I've been in no position to rob the Pavilion."

"Oh." The older man nodded. "I know. The police, they are looking for someone already — a man named Robin Hood."

* * *

**EIGHT DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Washington D.C., USA_

There are two dozen truly great museums in the world. Maybe two dozen and one if you don't mind the crowds at the Louvre, Emma's grandmother always said. But, of course, even great museums are not created equal. Some are nothing but old houses with high ceilings and gorgeous moldings, a few security cameras, and minimum-wage guards. Some hire consultants and get their equipment from the CIA. And then there is the Pavilion.

"So this is the Pavilion," Ruby said as they strolled through the great glass hall. Her sister's hands were in her pockets, and her hair was still damp from a shower. "It's smaller than I expected."

Emma had to stop. "You've never been to the Pavilion?"

She cocked her head. "Should alcoholics go to liquor stores?"

Emma kept walking. "Point taken."

There were nine official entrances to the Pavilion, and Emma was actually a little bit proud of herself for choosing the main doors (or any door, truth be told). Maybe she was maturing. Or maybe she was lazy. Or maybe she just loved the Pavilion foyer.

Two stories of glass cut at dozens of angles framed the entrance. It was part solarium, part grand hall. Part sauna. The sun beat down, and despite the chilly wind that blew outside, the temperature inside the atrium was in the eighties at least. Men were taking off their suit coats. Women unwound scarves from around their necks. But Ruby didn't break a sweat, and all Emma could do was look at her, and think _Show off._

Two days before, the Pavilion had been closed until one in the afternoon, after a security guard doing his midnight rounds discovered a business card tucked between under a gemstone and its platform. It was a small matter, really, except the guard had sworn that, at ten p.m., no card had been on that platform.

An alarm had been raised. More security officials had been called. And, unfortunately, so had a reporter from the local news. Metropolitan P.D. had reviewed every piece of surveillance footage. Every member of the security staff, the cleaning crew, and the volunteer corps had been interviewed, but no one had seen anyone dangerously close to the gemstone in question.

And so, by Tuesday morning, the official stance of the official people, from the director of the Pavilion to the lead prosecutor at Metropolitan P.D., was that the guard was mistaken. The card must have been left by housekeeping earlier in the day and missed by security.

The unofficial stance of unofficial people was that someone from one of the old families was playing a joke. But Emma and Ruby weren't laughing. And neither, Emma thought, was the Pavilion.

"Standing in the long line that day, Emma shifted on her feet. She crossed her arms. It felt as if her body held more energy — more nerves — than normal. She had to fight to keep them all in.

"I was here visiting _the_ _Great Mogul_ in August," the woman in front of them told her male companion. "There weren't metal detectors then."

Ruby looked at Emma, and she read her sister's mind. The metal detectors were new.

_If the metal detectors were new, what else was?_

"Well, in August, mysterious dudes weren't breaking in and leaving their calling cards," the man replied.

They took a step forward. "Maybe he was a gorgeous debonair thief who had a change of heart."

Emma snorted and thought about Neal.

"Maybe he's here right now," the man said, chuckling. "Scoping out the place?" He turned and scanned the atrium as if looking for the thief. What he saw was Ruby, who nodded and smiled, and the man blushed.

"I wouldn't mind meeting a gorgeous thief," the man whispered to his friend.

Ruby winked at Emma.

Emma raised her eyebrows and whispered. "I'd like to meet one of those, too."

Ruby brought her hands to her chest, feigning injury, but Emma was far too worried and too tired to play along. She saw Ruby looking at her and felt the hope that was growing inside of her. She pretended not to notice. "It's probably nothing," she told her sister.

Ruby took a step. "Of course it is."

"I mean, in all likelihood, it's a coincidence," Emma said as if she really meant it.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Ruby lied.

The line inched forward. "We're probably wasting our time."

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

But the downside of being a con artist is that it makes you very hard to con. Even if the lies you tell are to yourself.

It was a most unusual day in what was shaping up to be the most unusual week in the Pavilion's anything-but-usual existence.

Even if Emma Swan didn't quite know to appreciate it, this fact was more than obvious to the guards, docents, custodians, staff, managers, and regular visitors who were all very well aware that lines never formed before nine a.m. on weekdays. The elderly ladies in the burgundy blazers who sat at the information desk commented that the eight different school groups who were visiting that day all seemed particularly quiet, as if listening and looking for a ghost.

The floors in the Gem and Mineral room always glowed a little brighter, and the cases stood a little straighter, and the diamond at the center of it —_ The Great Mogul _— always attracted more awestruck visitors than any other thing inside the Pavilion's walls. But on that morning, it felt very much as if the museum's crown jewel had somehow lost its shine.

Today, the main exhibit room stood empty as long lines moved down the marble halls, all heading for the exact same place.

"This is it."

Emma didn't have to read the sign on the entrance to know they'd reached the right collection. All she had to do was see the crowds and hear the whisper on the air: _Robin Hood._

Tourists and scholars alike stood shoulder to shoulder, heel to toe, gawking, waiting to see the place where a card had mysteriously appeared in the middle of the night in one of the most secure buildings in all of Washington D.C.

Emma and Ruby didn't talk while they waited to enter the packed room. They didn't comment on the angles of the cameras or the positions of the guards. They were tourists too, in a way. Curious. Eager to know the truth about the very strange thing that had happened, but needing to know for entirely different reasons.

"He was here," Emma said when she finally made it inside. Most people looked for only a few seconds, then moved on. But Emma lingered. She and Ruby were like the center of a wheel, barely moving while the rest of the crowd circled past.

"Yeah, except he didn't _take _anything," Ruby said.

"He was there." Emma felt her hand raise. She saw her finger point. A wide array of gemstones stood along the gallery's far wall. Two days before, Robin Hood had left his card tucked on the platform under a large gem in the center.

A business card, the rumors said. White cardstock and black letters spelling out a name that, until then, had only been whispered in the darkest corners of the darkest rooms.

A calling card, left by a ghost, saying simply, _Robin Hood_ _was here._

Emma thought about that card, and something in her heart — or maybe just her blood — told her that of all the people who filled the Pavilion that day, he was speaking directly to her.

"Why break in and not take anything?" Ruby asked, but Emma shook her head.

She asked a better question: "Why break in and _leave_ something?"

Emma stepped closer to the gem at the center of it all. _Amethyst Quartz_, it was called. It was a lovely stone. It represented healing and activated spiritual awareness. But there was nothing remarkable about it besides the fact that this was the place where Robin Hood had chosen to leave his card.

Emma stayed back, staring at the other gems in the case, trying to guess what Hood had been thinking.

She closed her eyes and remembered the stories she'd heard her whole life — legends of the greatest thief who never lived:

A man walked into the Kremlin and walked out with a Faberge egg under his top hat.

A corrupt German art dealer sold a fake Rembrandt to an Englishman, not aware that stolen Nazi plans were hidden inside.

Now one gem was missing. Emma stared at the platform. One gem remained.

She made a slow rotation, scrutinizing the quartz, studying its dimensions. She felt her heart start to race.

"What if that card wasn't all he left?"

"What?" Ruby asked, turning to look at her, but Emma was already walking forward, examining the glistening facets around the semi-precious gem.

"Miss," one of the docents said as Emma leaned forward. "Miss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step back." The man eased between Emma and the platform but not before the idea had already taken root in Ruby's mind.

"_No_," Ruby started, and then she looked from the quartz and back to Emma again. "Why would someone break into the Pavilion to leave a priceless diamond..." She looked at the platform. "_Inside_ a cheap gemstone?" She didn't even try to hide the awe in her voice.

_Because he's done things like this before_, Emma wanted to say. Because using the name Hood means you always have a plan — a reason. Because Psuedonim jobs aren't ordinary jobs. Because Robin Hood isn't an ordinary thief.

"But why would someone do that?"

"I don't know, Ruby."

"But why would —"

"I... I don't know."

She suddenly felt the need to be free of the crowds and the noise and the history that hung on every wall, taunting her.

"Somebody's playing games!" Emma said angrily as she left the exhibit hall and started down the Pavilion's grand promenade. She walked faster, Ruby beside her, trying to keep up. "Somebody's having a great time! And he doesn't care that other people are going to get hurt because of it."

People were starting to stare, so Ruby placed her arm around her shoulder and tried to stop her — to calm her.

"I know," she whispered. "But maybe it's a good thing."

* * *

After saying goodbye to her sister, Emma watched the city roll by from the back of a taxi. She was acutely aware of the fact that she had three, maybe four, options.

Option one: she could call Peter Pan and tell him to meet her at the Pavilion. How he got the diamond out of the quartz and out the door was his problem. This, of course, was the option that made the most sense, incurred the least amount of risk, and, given what Mr. Blaník had told them, was most likely to get her thrown into Peter Pan's moat. Therefore, it was an option she didn't consider for long.

If they had been any other kind of jewel — or if Peter Pan had been any other kind of man — then option number two would have been the clear winner. All it required was a five minute phone call to the Pavilion's director and the suggestion that a business card might not have been all Robin Hood left behind. But there was no way Emma could be certain that Pan's hold over the paintings was legal enough to see them returned, or illegal enough to see him arrested. The only thing Emma knew for certain was that if she caused Pan to lose the thing he loved, then eventually, he would return the favor.

The third option was still forming vaguely in the back of her mind, but she knew it would almost certainly involve a lecture from her grandmother and a general call to arms of every lock man, pyro geek, wheeler, and/or inside player in the business. Given recent events, it would probably also involve a lot of Emma being looked at and talked to like someone's granddaughter. It would most certainly include the very real risk that Peter Pan's diamond would not be the only one liberated from the Pavilion collection. That is, if Granny said so.

But Granny had said it was over. Granny had said it was sacred, and if she didn't think Emma could (or should) undo what Robin Hood had done, then there was no thief in the world who would attempt it. Still, Emma's mind kept coming back to option three.

Maybe because that was the best of the options. Or maybe, she feared, because it was the option that was in her blood.

Once Emma reached her hotel room, she dialed August's number and caught him up to speed.

"We don't have a lot of time," August said. "For a target the size of the Pavilion, we'll have to —"

"This is nuts." Emma blurted more for her own benefit than for August's. "Stealing from this Robin Hood guy — whoever he is — that's one thing. But stealing," she stopped, ever wary of the off chance of thin walls, and lowered her voice, "from _the Pavilion_!"

Emma rubbed the back of her neck — the very gesture she'd seen Neal make a thousand times…

Right before he agreed to do something stupid.

"I mean, even if we did," she said, looking through her window at the view of Dupont Circle, "it's _the Pavilion_."

"Yeah," August said, his voice cool.

"No one has ever stolen anything from the Pavilion."

"Yeah," August said again, his excitement rising.

Emma stopped. "We'd be stealing a _diamond_."

"Well, technically, we'd be re-stealing them," he said dryly. "It's kind of like a double negative."

She paced from the bathroom to the bed, going nowhere in particular. Just going. "Assuming we could do it, it'd take a big crew."

"Yeah, and no one really likes you," August added.

"Ass." The wind looked cold beneath the gray sky. Leaves blew across the ground around walking pedestrians' feet. "We'd need gear — the good stuff. The really expensive stuff."

"Too bad I'm only good for my looks," August said. "And my better-than-average singing voice."

Emma rolled her eyes. "_Eight days_, August."

This time he had no response, no solution. If there was one thing Emma learned from losing her parents, it was that even the best thief in the world can't steal time.

Emma looked out a different window to see massive brownstone estates sprawling up and down the street. Smoke spiraled from at least three chimneys. She imagined that somewhere in those grand old buildings, someone was preparing a home cooked meal.

She missed Granny.

She sat down in a sofa chair, the weight of what they had to do settling down on her.

"Mr. Blaník —" Emma started, but August cut her off.

"Don't think about it."

"It isn't Pan's diamond, August."

"Emma, listen to me." His voice was firm. "First, we save Neal." There was an urgency in his voice that made Emma forget to fight as August narrowed her options down to one. "First, we rob the Pavilion."

A heavy knock on Emma's door interrupted their conversation.

"We're gonna need people," Emma said as she walked to the ornate entrance. "People we can trust." She added.

Emma opened the door, revealing the warmly lit hallway and familiar faces of August, Ruby and Archie.

August, still holding the phone to his ear, grinned a cheshire smile. "You mean, like them?"


	9. For Your Own Good

Chapter Song:_ Lessons _by SOHN

* * *

**SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

The assembly of a crew is a monumental event in a thief's life. There are meetings and phone calls. Plans, and occasionally, a celebratory cake. Normal families have graduations. Thief families have this. Emma should have felt a little cheated that she'd missed out on all the fun. But she didn't.

She looked at August. He shrugged. "I had a hunch." And then he helped himself to one of the hotel finger sandwiches that was circulating around the room, popping it whole into his mouth, barely taking time to chew before reaching for the tray again.

No one shook hands or said hello. Emma's friends looked as if they were prepared to stay all night, planning. And even though they were essentially in a circle, Emma saw the way they watched her, and for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be at the head of the table.

"Thanks for coming." She took a step closer, gripped the back of a wing chair. "I've got a sort of job."

I knew that something was happening when you came to Vegas." Archie said. "So what is it?" He pushed up his glasses. "Art gallery? Bank heist?"

"It's not a job like anyone here has ever done before," Emma said.

In that moment, the room seemed to find a new energy. Archie's fingers twitched. Ruby leaned closer. Even August seemed to be giving her friend his full attention as Emma searched their eyes and drew a breath.

"Whatever we do next," she blurted, "we do _without_ Granny's blessing."

No one responded at first. August looked at Ruby, smiling, as if waiting for permission to laugh. It had to be a joke, after all. But Ruby was stoic, and Archie was mumbling about Vegas, and growing pale. And, most of all, _something_ had pulled Emma back into their world.

Emma dimmed the lights and turned on the television. The same black-and-white video that had been haunting Emma's dreams started to play.

"This is a private villa in Scotland." The frame froze on the empty gallery-style room. "And I mean _private_."

"How do we get in?" Archie asked, inching closer to the screen.

Ruby and Emma looked at each other. Emma shook her head. "We don't."

Then, as if on cue, the man they called Hood came onto the screen. "Someone has already done us that favor." They watched the artist work for a few moments.

"Hey, Emma," Archie started, "is that—"

"It's not Neal!"

"I was gonna say, is that a type two diamond?"

"Oh, yeah," she said slowly. She thought of Mr. Blaník. "There were five precious gems in all, but he only took that one."

"Who is this guy?" Archie asked.

"Does it matter?" Ruby asked. Archie shrugged, but every eye was on Emma.

This was the time, of course, to tell them the whole story. It was also the time to lie. Emma asked herself what Neal would do, what Granny might say.

So Emma settled on the lie she knew was truest: "That guy is Robin Hood."

Emma wasn't surprised to hear their silence.

Archie was the only one who moved. "The Robin Hood who robbed five Swiss banks in one night in 1932? The Robin Hood who made off with half the crown jewels of Russia in 1960?" Sweat gathered on Archie's brow. "_The_ Robin Hood?"

Ruby leaned back and crossed her legs. "Don't worry, cricket." She took a small bite out of a sandwich. "It's way worse than you think."

August rubbed his hands across the tops of his thighs, warming them, getting ready for something — anything. Emma could practically feel his excitement.

Archie seemed to be calculating something in his head. "If he did a job in '32, doesn't that make him kind of...old?"

"Robin Hood is a _pseudonim om_, a sacred name used by thieves for very important jobs." Emma explained.

"So this guy..." Archie trailed off, but pointed to the man on the screen.

"He could be anyone," August finished.

Emma turned and stared out the window at the intersections and ornate buildings, the trappings of Dupont Circle, as she thought about the laws of hers. "He could be anywhere."

Archie was rising and starting to pace. "So we're all here because we've got to..." he stammered, pointing to the screen. "You mean this is a..." He stopped and put his hands on his hips. His shirt was peeking out from underneath his sweater vest. His face was growing redder by the second. "From what I know, I was under the impression that _pseudonim oms_ are..."

"Not to be messed with?" Ruby answered for him. Then she smiled. "Oh, they're not. Or, well, they weren't."

"You can walk away right now. All of you," Emma reminded them. "Granny has already said it can't — or maybe that it shouldn't — be done." She drew a deep breath, wondering for a moment if there was a difference. "I won't blame any of you if you turn and leave right now. It's not a _typical_ job." Emma didn't know what was harder — what she had to say, or the way everyone looked at her while she said it. "Mr. Pan has" — Emma considered her words carefully — "asked for our help getting the diamond."

"So...what? There's some kind of finder's fee?" Archie asked.

"It's not quite like that," Emma admitted.

"More like a promise that Pan won't drown Neal in his moat," Ruby said simply.

Emma gave a weak smile as she looked at everyone. "And I'll owe you."

Emma expected her friends to need a moment to think. They should have taken a walk around the grounds to clear their heads, put their thoughts in order. Emma expected half of them to do her family proud and slip away noiselessly into the night, but amazingly, that didn't happen.

Instead, August patted Emma on the back and said, "I'm in. Whatever you need, Emma."

Archie held his hand to his mouth, biting his nails as he stared into space. Calculating. "What are the odds Granny already knows about this?"

Emma and August looked at each other, spoke at the exact same time. "Two to one."

Archie gulped. But eventually he said, "Okay."

Emma looked at Ruby, who had started polishing her toenails. The woman didn't even look up, but as Emma opened her mouth to speak, Ruby said, "Duh," and Emma knew there was nothing else to say on the subject.

"Great. Thanks. I guess we'll start casing the target tomorrow."

"What is the target?" Archie said slowly.

Ruby looked at Emma. For a moment it seemed okay.

And then Emma said, "The Pavilion."

* * *

If you lived in 1921, and if you had more money than time, and if you were a woman, then there were very few acceptable ways in which you were allowed to fill your days. Some played cards. Others played music. Most surrounded themselves with dresses and hats, perfectly tended gardens and expertly steeped cups of tea. But Ann Marie Pavilion had not belonged in 1921... not really. And so Ann Pavilion had turned her great fortune to her great passion and almost single-handedly built the greatest museum in the world.

"Better than the Louvre?" August's voice cut through the sound of the fountain in front of the glass-covered main entrance.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Too crowded."

"The Tate?"

"Too pretentious."

"The Egyptian Museum in Cairo?"

Emma leaned back and let her fingers trail through the water. "Way too hot."

The surveillance cameras mounted on the walls that circled the Pavilion saw all of this, of course. They were perfectly positioned and highly calibrated-the best they could possibly be.

The two guards who stood sentry by each gate no doubt noticed the young man and woman who lingered by the fountain, eating sandwiches, throwing crumbs to the birds that landed on the square — just like a thousand other young couples that gathered here each year.

The guards might have seen the man throw his arm around the woman's neck and hold a camera out in front of them, snapping pictures. They might have noticed how the couple paced from one end of the wall to the next. They didn't, of course, see that the pictures were really of the positions of the cameras; that their paced steps were mapping out the dimensions of the perimeter wall.

They were simply two people who appeared to be in the midst of a great date.

But, of course, the guards didn't see a lot of things.

If the guards at the Pavilion didn't pay much attention to the boy and girl who were lingering outside, they certainly did not notice the pale, lanky man with the backpack and a small digital gaming device who wandered the halls aimlessly...until he actually ran into one of the docents on patrol, falling to the hard floor in the process.

The device in his hand skidded across the marble floor.

"No!" the man cried, chasing it. But as soon as it skidded to a stop at the feet of one of the Pavilion guards, the man froze.

The guard leaned down and picked up the device. If he'd been more focused on the man than the toy, he might have noticed that Archie was holding his breath and was every bit as pale as the marble statue that stood behind him. But the guard was too captivated by the maze of grids and dots and lines that filled the screen to notice him. "What is this?"

"Nothing!" Archie blurted far too quickly, but his baby face was too innocent to cause any worry for the docent and the guard.

"The docent looked over the guard's shoulder. "That's _Underworld Warrior 2_, isn't it?" the docent asked, leaning closer to examine the screen. "Aren't you a little old to be playing video games?"

"Hey, what's this —" The guard started hitting the red button, and Archie winced.

"Don't... Don't...Please don't..."

"It's really different from _Underworld Warrior 1_, huh?" the guard asked, still punching the button, not knowing the chaos he was causing in the guardroom twenty feet away as every motion sensor in the building began to flash. "What's this do?" The guard moved to a different button, but before he could short-circuit every electrical device within a dozen yards, Archie lunged for him.

"It's sort of a...prototype," he said, snatching the device out of the guard's hand before the man's colleagues noticed that anything was wrong. It should be pointed out that this was in fact the truth, and so Archie had no trouble saying, "I design these things."

The guard eyed the device again, then patted Archie on the back. "Smart guy. You watch where you're going, okay?"

"Will do," Archie said, and that, more than anything, wasn't a lie.

The docents at the Pavilion were used to seeing almost every sort of behavior from the thousands of guests who paraded through the museum each year.

But when a young woman in amazingly high heels stumbled through the halls that day, there was something about her that simply demanded the guards' attention. Some said later it was her short skirt. Others wisely observed that it was more likely the legs that protruded beneath it. Whatever the case, their eyes were most certainly not on her hands.

"Wow!" the woman exclaimed too loudly as she walked into the room that had recently become known as the Robin Room. She craned her head to look at the ornate ceiling overhead. "That's tall!"

The docents at the Pavilion did not know what every thief knows — that if there's no way to do something without being seen, then it's best to do it in a way that will be well and fully stared at.

"That," Ruby said, spinning on her high heels and pointing at the gemstones that stood at the center of the room, "is pretty!"

The guards who were monitoring the Robin Room that day had never been accused of being lazy or slow, of being dense or unaware. But that did not change the fact that they had never seen a seemingly intoxicated young woman teeter across a marble floor and lunge for museum property.

The tourists, who, so far, had been far too proper to openly stare, had to hurry out of the way. The guards, who had been too busy studying the young woman's legs to notice where those legs were carrying her, could only gape.

Her hand brushed against the platform and her legs immediately stopped being the most interesting thing about her.

A shock echoed throughout the room. Metal grates descended from the ceiling, blocking the doors in a split second while women screamed and children cried and a siren pierced the air so loudly that men dropped their children's hands to cover their own ears.

Even the guards cringed and bent over, the crackles of their walkie-talkies lost in the chaos of sirens and trapped tourists. When they remembered the woman with the long legs and the short skirt who lay on the cold marble floor, she was too unconscious and too pretty for anyone at the Pavilion to stay mad for long.

No one noticed the way Emma stood on the other side of the grates watching everything unfold, plugs in her ears blocking out the sound. Plans were already taking shape in her mind as she turned and walked slowly toward the exit.

If it hadn't been for the alarms and the grates, the trapped tourists and the unconscious woman, someone at the Pavilion might have noticed the two goons who appeared at Emma's side as if from nowhere.

They might have seen Emma and the men disappear behind the tinted glass of a stretch limousine and noted that Emma didn't scream.

They might have heard her say, "Hello, Mr. Pan."

* * *

The first thing Emma did, of course, was kick herself. She should have been expecting this. She should have heard them coming. But the alarms had been too loud and the earplugs too effective, and her mind had been too distracted by the serious work she had to do, and so Emma's guard was down that day. But she wasn't going to let Peter Pan know it.

He smiled frostily at her from the other side of the limo's backseat, and despite everything, she was almost glad for the warmth of the goonlike bodies on either side of her.

"Your efforts are entertaining, Miss Swan," he said with a slight laugh. "Ineffective, but entertaining."

Emma thought back to the sight of her sister slumping to the cold floor of the gallery while the Pavilion's state-of-the-art defenses were put to the test by a 29 year old woman. And her legs.

"I told you I wasn't the right person for the job," Emma said. "Now, there's a Japanese crew that comes highly recommended. I could get you a name and number if you're interested."

Pan's dismissive wave made Emma realize that he was enjoying this. She thought of his hidden bunker, and she knew somehow that the joy he got from keeping things so beautiful and precious under lock and key was nothing compared to the thrill of following them across several oceans. Jewels are just things, after all. What Peter Pan really loved was the chase.

"So tell me, Emma" — he jerked his head in the direction of the grand old building that was disappearing in the distance — "what are you going to steal? The _Great Mogul_, perhaps? I would pay handsomely to add that to my collection, you know."

"I'm not a thief," Emma said. He looked at her. "_Anymore_," she added. "I'm not a thief anymore."

Pan didn't try to hide the amusement in his eyes. "And yet here you are."

"I'm here to get your diamond, Mr. Pan, so technically I'm re-stealing." Again, August's voice echoed in her head. "Re-stealing is more like a double negative."

"You think Neal has hidden my diamond inside the Pavilion?" Pan scoffed, a cruel guttural sound. "And exactly why would he do that?"

"Not Neal," she said. "Remember?"

"Oh, Emma," he said with a sigh. "If not your child's father, then who?"

She thought for a moment about Robin Hood — about a legend, a ghost. But he wasn't a ghost, not really. Somewhere in the world there was a man — a very real man — with blood and bones and the necessary knowledge to break into the most secure museum in the world, and to use that particular name to do it.

So somewhere, yes, there was a man. And his name was not Robin Hood. But somehow Emma doubted that Peter Pan would understand.

"I did find them, Peter Pan," Emma said, scooting closer, sitting up. "I can tell you where they are, and then I guess you won't need me anymore. After all" — she gestured behind them — "as you saw, my friends and I are not really suited for an opportunity of this magnitude."

"Ah, but Emma, I think you're suited quite nicely."

He smiled at her, and Emma couldn't help herself: a part of her wondered whether this man had more faith in her than her own grandmother, maybe even more than Neal. But then again, this man didn't care if she ended up dead or in prison as long as he got his diamond back, so maybe he wasn't the best judge of her abilities.

"We need more time." It was a statement, not a plea, and Emma was surprised by how steady her voice stayed as she said it. "This is the Pavilion. No one has ever robbed the Pavilion."

"If you're correct, then Neal got through their security to place my diamond — "

"Look!" Emma didn't know she was reaching for him until she felt the coolness of the walking stick in his hands. "You don't believe me when I say Neal didn't steal your diamond, fine. You don't believe me when I say they're in that building, okay. But they are. And believe me when I say no crew is going to take on the Pavilion in seven days. It's not going to happen. It can't be done."

Emma felt the goons on either side of her shifting. She knew that in the game Peter Pan was playing, she had just changed the rules, and that the goons, for all their might and muscle, had never considered that anyone would ever touch their boss.

"Did you know they've got at least a hundred guards working three eight-hour overlapping shifts?" Emma asked. "And they're not cheap rent-a-cops either. Most are former law enforcement. All are well trained, and there's a five-week waiting period for background checks before they hire any new people, so there's no getting anyone on the inside."

She felt her momentum building, and Pan let her talk.

"Did you know they've got the same kind of surveillance cameras the CIA uses on their annex buildings at Langley? And that's not even counting the pressure-sensitive floor panels or the electrified platforms that my sister was kind enough to point out. And did I mention the pressure switches? Of course, I don't know anything about them..._because it's the Pavilion_...and they don't exactly post their security specs on the Internet, but you can bet your friends' weight in gold that they've got sensors on the back of those displayed stones so sensitive that if a fly landed on one, the whole place would lock down before you could say 'Gemstone.'"

He smiled again, slower this time, and it sent a chill through Emma as sharp as any winter wind.

"I'm going to miss our little chats, Miss Swan. You should know that it's out of respect for your mother's family that I have tried to do this in the most honorable way possible. I've told you what I want. I've given you more than enough time to comply. And yet no one has returned my diamond." He sounded genuinely surprised — as if he'd been waiting every day for them to come in the mail.

Emma leaned closer, and now there was no disguising the fear in her voice. "I. Can't. Do it."

"Don't worry, Emma. Seven days from now, if I still don't have my diamond, I'll simply pay Neal a visit and ask him myself."

"He doesn't know," Emma shot back, but Pan continued.

"Perhaps, by that time, his friends from the FBI will be gone and then I can speak to him myself. Yes" — he nodded slowly — "when the time comes, Neal will get me what I need."

Emma started to speak, but before she could say a word, Pan turned to Goon 1. "Aren't you hot in those gloves, Felix?"

But it wasn't hot — not at all. Emma held her breath as the large man pulled the glove from his left hand and rested it on his left knee, inches from the hand that she was holding. When Emma had first seen the stick's pewter handle, she had thought the ornate pattern of a tree was pretty. But that was before she saw the identical pattern on the hand beside her, a scar — a warning — seared forever into flesh.

"When the time comes, I'll simply ask Neal." Pan's voice was cold and cruel. "Don't worry, Emma. I can be quite persuasive."

The car slowed. Emma felt something land in her lap, and glanced down to see a large manila envelope.

"In the meantime, Emma, I do wish you luck in your endeavors." Again, he didn't mock. He truly seemed to believe in her as he took back his walking stick and said, "You have _so many _reasons to succeed."

Felix opened the door and stepped from the car. With his scarred hand, he gestured for her to follow.

Emma stood perfectly still for a long time on the sidewalk of the National Mall - the envelope too heavy in her hands. She held her breath and looked inside. Photographs. But not just photographs. There was a very different word that came to Emma Swan's mind: _Leverage._

She felt sick. The cold wind froze her to the bone. Loud duck tours buses and bright neon lights surrounded her, reflecting off the black-and-white images in her hands. Of all the pictures in Peter Pan's life, probably few had brought him as much enjoyment as the ones she held now.

August boarding a train in Venice, his hair blowing in the wind.

Ruby striding through the lobby of a Scottish hotel.

Neal sipping coffee, crossing a crowded Boston square.

Granny and Henry sitting on a park bench in Roxbury.

The people she most cared about were depicted there in black-and-white and the message was clear: Peter Pan knew how to find the people and things that were important to her, and if Emma didn't do the same, he wouldn't be the only one to lose something he loved.

For the first time in Emma Swan's life, she truly understood that a picture was worth a thousand words.

* * *

Walking into the hotel room, hours late, Emma knew something was wrong.

For starters, Archie was even paler than usual. Ruby lay on the sofa, her feet propped up, a damp rag on her forehead; her hair was significantly frizzier, and as August placed the bowl of ice beside her, he didn't even try to look down her shirt.

She felt the envelope of photographs rub against her bare stomach, where she'd tucked it beneath the waistband of her jeans. Hiding it. Instantly, she wanted to call everyone she ever knew and tell them to scatter — to hide. But the only people she knew were professional thieves. They never stopped hiding.

"Welcome back." August was now against a window seat on the far side of the room, not quite sitting and not quite standing. He pushed away from the wall. "So glad you could join us."

"Oh, I'm fine, Em," Ruby replied to the unasked question with a dramatic wave of her good hand. "I'm sure the burns on my feet are going to heal in no time."

But no one else said anything. They all just looked at Emma, none of them wanting to be the bearer of bad news.

Emma felt the envelope slide against her stomach. She could have sworn she heard it scrape against the denim, as loud as a scream in the quiet room. But it was her ears playing tricks on her. Her mind. Maybe her cool was one more thing she'd lost in Tallahassee.

"What?" Emma asked, looking around the room.

"Archie," August said, dropping onto one of the leather couches and propping his feet up. He gestured for the man to begin.

"The paramedics were quite sure the dizziness would subside eventually," Ruby offered from the couch. Everyone ignored her.

"Well," Archie said slowly. Three different laptops were spread out before him. The small device he'd carried through the Pavilion was plugged into one, and a three-dimensional schematic flashed across the screens. "It's" — Archie looked as if he were trying to recall the right technical term — "complicated."

"They gave me this wonderful ointment for the scalded tips of my fingers," Ruby added. No one heard.

"Do you want the bad news or the good news?" Archie asked.

"Good," Emma and August said at the same time.

"The Pavilion has spent the last six months updating all of its security features — which were already good. I mean_ Pavilion good_ — so the new stuff is —"

"I thought you said this was the good news," August said.

Archie nodded. "A change like this doesn't happen overnight, so they're doing it exhibit by exhibit, starting with the most valuable rooms, and..."

"The Robin Room isn't the top of the list?" Emma guessed.

Archie shook his head. "Not even close. So if the Pavilion is vulnerable anywhere, this is it."

Emma had spent hours wondering why that room of that museum. She knew it hadn't been random. There was a reason a thief like Robin would pick that exhibit over any of the Pavilion's other crown jewels, and this was it. She smiled. Somehow the world was starting to make sense again.

"And the bad news?" August asked.

Archie shrugged. "It's still the Pavilion."

It took a moment for the words to sink in — for everyone to realize the magnitude of what had to be done. Success in Emma's world depended so much on details that the big pictures were frequently lost. But Emma knew what they were doing. And as the moment stretched out, everyone else seemed to remember too.

"It's totally a closed-circuit feed," Archie went on, a moment later. "There's no way we're hacking in from the outside. But we knew that already."

"Hops, why don't you skip to the parts we don't know?" August said with fond impatience.

"Right," Archie said, pointing at August as if that were a brilliant idea. "They've already updated all the wiring in the whole building. Really state-of-the-art stuff. I mean, it's incredible — "

"Archie," August interrupted.

"Well... that's the bad news," Archie finished. "There's no hacking it. Even if I could tie into the mainframe, I couldn't override their system."

"I'm really hoping there's good news," Ruby snapped.

Archie smiled. "Remodeling old buildings like the Pavilion is... awkward," he said, his eyes shining.

"And..." August prompted.

"And so sometimes when they put new systems in..."

Archie started, but Emma was already nodding.

"They leave the old systems right where they are," she finished. She looked at August, and together they said, "Like the Dubai job."

Archie nodded. "I'm not saying I can get it up and running, but if I can get into a high-security room for fifteen minutes, and if I'm right...that's our way into the Pavilion's inner sanctums."

"Do it," Archie said, then stopped. He looked at Emma and waved, an _after you_ gesture.

Emma turned to her sister. "So, Rubes, what did we learn?"

Ruby glared at her. "We learned that the next time you want to find out what kind of frontline defense mechanisms someone has in place, you can..." but she trailed off as she fell back on the pillow. "What was I saying?"

Emma looked at August.

"Exhibit hall grates fell one point two seconds after contact," August told her.

"The main hall was locked down less than five seconds after that," Archie added, crossing his leg. "From what I saw, we won't be doing anything that requires a hasty break for the nearest exit."

"Yeah," August agreed. "Those Pavilion guards didn't look like the sort who would let us walk out the front door with a diamond in the middle of the day."

"Even if it isn't _their _diamond," Archie said.

"Great," Ruby said from the couch. "I ruined my nails for nothing."

"Not for nothing," Emma said. "Thanks to you, Rubes, we just figured out a half dozen ways _not to_ rob the Pavilion."

"Mary Poppins?" August suggested four hours later.

"Do _you _know a way to make it rain between now and Tuesday?" Ruby replied.

"Five O'Clock Shadows?" August asked.

"Backup generators only give us fifteen seconds," Archie said with a shake of his head.

They'd been through every con they'd ever heard of, and a few Emma guessed that August had made up on the spot, but she didn't notice the hour until she saw Archie stifle a yawn. Emma was too consumed by a ticking clock in the back of her mind. A deadline. A plan. She stared at the lists and diagrams they're drawn in Magic Marker, and after that had dried up, eyeliner, all over the glass of the hotel windows.

"It's no use," August said, dropping to one of the leather sofas. "If we had a month...maybe."

"We don't," Emma told him.

"If we had two, maybe three, more people..."

Emma closed her eyes. "We don't."

Emma could feel the air changing — the hope slipping away. Maybe they were too tired. Maybe they'd simply been closed up in that room for too long. But she actually jumped when she heard August say, "We need to call Granny."

"_No_." Emma had_ thought_ the word, of course. But it took her a moment to realize the voice that answered belonged to Ruby. "Granny said no. Don't you guys get it? If she said no, then..." she trailed off. It seemed to take all of her energy to sit upright on the sofa. "We have to do it," Emma finished.

Archie looked at Emma. "What about at night? Hood did it at night."

_**If **__Hood did it,_ Emma thought but didn't dare say. She didn't want to remind anyone — least of all herself — that there might be nothing behind those five paintings but the most sensitive anti-theft devices ever designed by man. That this might be, in every way, a ghost hunt, a fool's errand. The greatest con the greatest con man to never live had ever pulled.

"You see these, Emma?" Ruby gestured to the plan-covered windows. "One of these plans might work — _maybe_ — for the best six-man crew in the world. Except" — she turned her head, doing a quick headcount — "yeah, there are still just four of us."

"We can do it with four."

"Four makes it risky."

"Yeah," Emma said, spinning on her. "So was serving as the grease man when Aunt Anita robbed the Tower of London when I was fifteen, but I did it."

In the corner, August was smiling. "Good times," he said.

"You were late tonight." Ruby's voice was cool, even cold, and Emma knew this was the time to tell her about the photos. Either that or walk away.

Emma moved from the bed and rifled through her bags until she found her passport. She flipped it open and saw the name Samantha Davis beside a picture of herself in a brunette wig. She dug again, flipped open another cover: Casandra Wilson, a toned redhead. Three more tries yielded three more memories, until Emma found...herself.

She tucked those other girls away. For now.

"August — " she turned and looked at her friend — "thanks. And Archie," Emma said as she tried not to look at Ruby, "while I'm gone, figure out how to get eyes and ears in there."

"Sure," Archie said. "We could run a — wait, where are you going?"

When Emma reached the doorway, barely unpacked duffle in hand, Ruby sighed. "Boston?" She looked away, her tired body deflated into the couch. "Say hi to Neal for me."

* * *

**SIX DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE**

_Boston, Massachusetts, USA_

Hua Mulan had not been the youngest person in the FBI's Jewelry & Gem Theft division to achieve the rank of senior special agent. She was not the only woman. And yet, in an agency that was in every way a part of the Old Boy network, it was impossible for anyone to look at her without first registering that she was neither old nor boy. This was only part of the mystery that surrounded her when she'd moved from D.C. to the Boston branch. The thing that most mystified the professional mystery solvers of the small branch of the FBI's main New England office was that Hua Mulan was so lucky.

And this morning, of course, was no exception.

No sooner had she walked into the cramped, unglamorous office, than one of her Old Boy colleagues met her at the door.

"You've got a witness to your gallery robbery," he said, and Mulan did not seem the least bit surprised that her cold case was warm again. "A young woman," the man continued. "A tourist. She was down the street the night of the break-in. She says she saw a man in the area, acting suspiciously."

At this, Mulan raised her eyebrows. "Is he anyone we know?"

The man smiled and led her into the room where the young, muscular woman sat waiting.

"Thank you so much for coming in. I'm Special Agent Hua," the agent said. "I'm sorry. I don't believe I got your name?"

"Davis," the woman said. "Samantha Davis."

* * *

"_The Pavilion_?"

Emma heard Neal's voice. Through the small binoculars she always carried, she saw him walking through the crowd of the familiar square, his phone held to his ear, oblivious to the fact that his ex-girlfriend was standing in the bell tower of the church, watching everything.

"That's a nice way to greet a girl. No 'Hi, Em, how's life?'" she teased.

Neal kept his left hand shoved in his pocket, deep inside his wool coat, and Emma couldn't help thinking that it had gotten a lot colder in the past week.

"The Pavilion?" he asked again. "You know, someone said that you were going to" — he stopped and surveyed the crowd while lowering his voice — "_rob the Pavilion_, but that can't be. You're at home in Florida."

"Neal, I —"

"Leave the Pavilion alone, Emma," he blurted. "Go to a movie. Join the PTA or —"

"The PTA?"

"Em, dude, you do not want to do this."

"Of course I don't want to, Neal," she said, too aware of how true and deep the sentiment ran. "We _have_ to."

"_We_? Who exactly is _we_?"

"August," Emma said. Even from a block away she saw Neal grimace. "Archie." Emma wanted to keep her voice even, steady. "Ruby —"

"Your sister?" he said, not hiding his shock.

"We've come to a sort of truce." Emma thought of Ruby's tired, cold eyes following as she walked away. _Again. _"It's been...friendly."

A cold wind blew through the tower and down onto the square where Neal stood.

"So that's it, huh?" Neal asked. "You've got your own little heist society and now you're gonna rob the Pavilion." He turned and started moving down the busy street. "Call Granny, Emma. Tell her it's over. You're out."

"You think Granny is putting me up to this?" She watched the words wash over him. "You think she hasn't already gotten on a plane and told me to let her handle it?"

"Then_ let her_ handle it."

"Yeah." Emma fought back a laugh. "Because Granny always has _your _best interest in mind."

"Em..." Neal's voice was softer. "You need to stay away from Peter Pan. He's —"

"Coming for you."

"I'm fine, Emma."

"_Now_, Neal. You're fine _now._ You can get coffee and read newspapers and put on a show for whoever the FBI has following you that day. But if Pan doesn't get his diamond back, six days from now there's going to be a moment when the FBI isn't watching and you're not thinking, and then Peter Pan's gonna be here and you will be_ anything but_ fine."

He shook his head. "You don't know that."

"I do." Emma turned away, leaned against the cold, rough stone of the tower wall as she spoke softly into the phone. "I do know, because he told me."

Emma turned back to the square in time to see the shock sweep over her father, followed quickly by fear. "Stay out of this, Emma. Stay away from —"

"It's too late, Neal."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

When the sirens first broke through the damp chilly air that surrounded them, Neal Gold didn't even seem surprised.

He had made his peace long before, but Emma's conscience wasn't so clean. She shivered.

"It means you taught me some things well."

"Neal Gold?" Emma heard Hua Mulan's voice come clearly through the phone. She watched Neal study the woman who was walking toward him, with her chic, short haircut and designer coat, and Emma knew that if it hadn't been for the badge in the woman's hand, Neal would have never guessed she was a police officer. Or, more specifically, an FBI agent.

Hang up the phone and put your hands behind your back, sir," a uniformed officer said, appearing at Neal's side. But Neal didn't move. Instead he yelled, "Don't do it, Emma."

She watched the officer reach for the phone, heard Neal call out one last time, "Go back to Tallahassee, Emma."

And then nothing. The scene in the square was like a movie with no sound as Emma said, "Neal," but no one heard her. The crowd parted. Sirens wailed. And high above the chaos, Emma whispered, "I'm sorry."

Emma used to love Boston, but as she walked away from Neal that afternoon, the sidewalks seemed too crowded and foreign and cold. She wanted to go home. Wherever that was now.

She paused in her walk and studied the wooden sign of the café hanging above the door by a black pole and two, bulky chains. She smelt the fresh bakery items accompanied by brewing coffee, noted the low hanging light that seemed to emit a cozy warmth visible from even outside and made a decision.

In the weeks that followed, Emma would look back on her next choice from time to time and allow herself to feel at least a little bit stupid. She'd had a lot on her mind at that moment, it was true. She'd been worried about Neal. Worried that the FBI might realize that Samantha Davis and Emma Swan were one and the same, and that the eyewitness account of the former was good enough to hold the latter's best friend and keep him from Pan, but not quite good enough to keep him in jail.

She'd worried what Granny would say when she found out that she'd broken the thief's (much less the best friends') ultimate code.

Given her current mindset, it was understandable that it was instinct alone that made Emma sit down in one of the high chairs by the window and brood, people watch and nurse a lukewarm hot chocolate.

But, regardless of reasoning and circumstances, the fact was Emma _hadn't _been on guard. She hadn't been paying attention to whom else might've decided to walk down the same sidewalk that afternoon and hadn't even guessed whom else would walk into that very same café.

Maybe that's why when the door chimed and Emma glanced over, her heart felt like it'd been thrown off a penthouse balcony.

Because in that doorway, stood her past.

A person she hadn't seen in nearly a decade.

A _woman_ who was currently watching Emma with sharp, dark eyes that read a mix of casual and impatient. As if they had a standing appointment Emma had forgotten about.

Emma blinked and felt her muscles tighten to the point of rigidity. _"Regina?"_


End file.
